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ALL SHAKESPEARE'S TALES 



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ALL 

SHAKESPEARE'S 

TALES 

TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY 

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 

AND 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY 

WINSTON STOKES 



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NEWYOBK 

FREDERICK:* A.+STOKES COMPANY 

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Copyright, 1911, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 



All rights reserved 



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PREFACE TO TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY 
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 

THE following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young 
reader as an introduction to the study of Shakespeare, for 
which purpose his words are used whenever it seemed pos- 
sible to bring them in; and in whatever has been added to give 
them the regular form of a connected story, diligent care has been 
taken to select such words as might least interrupt the effect of the 
beautiful English tongue in which he wrote: therefore, words in- 
troduced into our language since his time have been as far as pos- 
sible avoided. 

In those tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, the 
young readers will perceive, when they come to see the source from 
which these stories are derived, that Shakespeare's own words, with 
little alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as 
in the dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the writers 
found themselves scarcely ever able to turn his words into the nar- 
rative form : therefore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has been 
made use of too frequently for young people not accustomed to 
the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has 
been caused by an earnest wish to give as much of Shakespeare's 
own words as possible : and if the " He said" and " She said" the 
question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to their 
young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way in 
which could be given to them a few hints and little foretastes of 
the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when 
they come to the rich treasures from which these small and value- 
less coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint 
and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image. Faint 

v 



VI 



PREFACE 



and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of 
his language is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of chang- 
ing many of his excellent words into words far less expressive of 
his true sense, to make it read something like prose; and even in 
some few places, where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping 
from its simple plainness to cheat the young readers into the be- 
lief that they are reading prose, yet still his language being trans- 
planted from its own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must 
want much of its native beauty. 

It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading for very 
young children. To the utmost of their ability the writers have 
constantly kept this in mind; but the subjects of most of them made 
this a very difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the his- 
tories of men and women in terms familiar to the apprehension of 
a very young mind. For young ladies too, it has been the intention 
chiefly to write; because boys being generally permitted the use of 
their fathers' libraries at a much earlier age than girls are, they 
frequently have the best scenes of Shakespeare by heart, before 
their sisters are permitted to look into this manly book; and there- 
fore, instead of recommending these Tales to the perusal of young 
gentlemen who can read them so much better in the originals, their 
kind assistance is rather requested in explaining to their sisters such 
parts as are hardest for them to understand: and when they have 
helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they will 
read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young sis- 
ter's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these 
stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and 
it is hoped they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select pas- 
sages, they may choose to give their sisters in this way will be much 
better relished and understood from their having some notion of 
the general story from one of these imperfect abridgments; — 
which if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any 
of the young readers, it is hoped that no worse effect will result 
than to make them wish themselves a little older, that they may 



PREFACE vii 

be allowed to read the Plays at full length (such a wish will be 
neither peevish nor irrational). When time and leave of judicious 
friends shall put them into their hands, they will discover in such 
of them as are here abridged (not to mention almost as many 
more, which are left untouched) many surprising events and turns 
of fortune, which for their infinite variety could not be contained 
in this little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful char- 
acters, both men and women, the humour of which it was feared 
would be lost if it were attempted to reduce the length of them. 

What these Tales shall have been to the young readers, that 
and much more it is the writers' wish that the true Plays of Shake- 
speare may prove to them in older years — enrichers of the fancy, 
strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mer- 
cenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and 
actions, to teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity: for of 
examples, teaching these virtues, his pages are full. 



PREFACE TO TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY 
WINSTON STOKES 

IN the preface by Charles Lamb, the purpose in writing a book 
of Shakespeare's Tales is too clearly and delightfully defined 
to bear repeating here; but as the author takes considerable 
pains to avoid the charge of presumption for creating what he is 
pleased to call " the faint and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's 
matchless image," how much more must the present writer seek 
pardon for including his own imperfect efforts with the models that 
precede them ! 

It is hoped that the supplementary Tales may not be read in any 
spirit of comparison with Lamb's wonderfully blended classics; 
for even were they written with Lamb's skill, their nature and the 
subjects with which they deal must in themselves preclude so varied 
and beautiful a result. Here are the earlier and lesser known of 
Shakespeare's plays, the products of his unripe craftsmanship and 
the historical pageants best adapted to a stage far different from 
our own — all less widely read and talked about than the plays that 
Lamb has treated in so masterful and fairy-like a manner. The 
writing has presented untold difficulties ; and to portray in foreign 
form the shifting battle-scenes of " Henry the Sixth," and guide the 
thread of an unbroken narrative among the horrors of " Titus 
Andronicus," must forbid an equal literary merit with Lamb's Tales, 
even if this had been attempted. 

But the purpose of this book is far removed from so presuming 
an effort, although the writer has, with Lamb, the definite desire 
to bring Shakespeare nearer to the affections of the young reader. 
If these Tales awaken interest in the less widely known of Shake- 
speare's plays, if they serve only as simple guides to render the plays 
more clear to future readers, they will accomplish their purpose. 

ix 



x PREFACE 

Moreover, there are a few notable omissions from Lamb's Tales, 
such as " Julius Caesar " and " The Merry Wives of Windsor," 
which here have been fulfilled to the best of the present writer's 
ability. 

While any repetition of Lamb's Tales has been strictly avoided 
• — as it is superfluous even to attempt what has been performed 
inimitably — it is believed that there is need for a book containing 
all Shakespeare's Tales, and in this volume all are gathered — 
those by Lamb marvellously told, and the others at least with the 
effort to preserve, so far as possible, the spirit of the plays them- 
selves. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface to Tales from Shakespeare by Charles and Mary Lamb v 
Preface to Tales from Shakespeare by Winston Stokes . . ix 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY CHARLES AND 
MARY LAMB 

The Tempest I 

A Midsummer Night's Dream 13 

The Winter's Tale 25 

Much Ado About Nothing . 37 

As You Like It 50 

The Two Gentlemen of Verona 66 

The Merchant of Venice 79 

Cymbeline . 92 

King Lear 106 

Macbeth 121 

All's Well That Ends Well 132 

The Taming of the Shrew 145 

The Comedy of Errors 156 

Measure for Measure 170 

Twelfth Night ; or What You Will .185 

j TiMON of Athens 199^ 

Romeo and Juliet ^-3/ 

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 230 

Othello 246 

Pericles, Prince of Tyre 260 



CONTENTS 

TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE BY WINSTON STOKES 

PAGE 

The Merry Wives of Windsor 279 

Love's Labour's Lost 289 

j Troilos and Cressida 302 

coriolanus 311 

Julius C^sar 324 

Antony and Cleopatra 335 

Titus Andronicus 346 

The Life and Death of King John 356 

j/The Tragedy of King Richard the Second 366 

/ The First Part of King Henry the Fourth 377 

* (The Second Part of King Henry the Fourth 384 

The Life of Henry the Fifth 392 

The First Part of King Henry the Sixth 400 

The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth 408 

The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth 421 

The Tragedy of Richard the Third 433 

The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth . 445 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



" ' On the Bat's Back Do I Fly After Summer Merrily ' ". . Cover 



a i 



I Will Give You Fairies to Attend Upon You ' " . . Frontispiece 



FACING PAGE 

" This Poor Deserted Baby Was Found by a Shepherd " . . .30 

" Now They Were in the Forest of Arden — But Almost Dy- 
ing With Fatigue " 56 

" She Would Have Softened Any Heart but the Unfeeling 
Shylock's" 86 

" They Were Engaged in Preparing Their Dreadful Charms " . 128 

" Each Dromio Complimented His Brother on His Good Looks " 168 

"The Day Was Breaking When They Parted" ; 218 

" He Affected to Treat Her With Unkindness " . . . . . 236 

" He Beguiled Her of Many a Tear, When He Spoke of What 
His Youth Had Suffered "..... 248 



U ( 



Throw Linen on Him, and Send Him by Two Men to Datchet 
Mead!'" 284 

" An Old Man — a Soothsayer — Bade Him to Beware the Ides 
of March " 326 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

BY 

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 



THE TEMPEST 

THERE was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants 
of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, 
and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. 
She came to this island so young, that she had no memory of having 
seen any other human face than her father's. 

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock; it was divided 
into several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; 
there he kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at 
that time much affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of 
this art he found very useful to him ; for being thrown by a strange 
chance upon this island, which had been enchanted by a witch 
called Sycorax, who died there a short time before his arrival, 
Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many good spirits that 
Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees, because they 
had refused to execute her wicked commands. These gentle spirits 
were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel 
was the chief. 

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his 
nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting 
an ugly monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because 
he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero 
found in the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in 
form than an ape: he took him home to his cell, and taught him 
to speak; and Prospero would have been very kind to him, but the 
bad nature which Caliban inherited from his mother Sycorax, would 
not let him learn anything good or useful: therefore he was em- 

I 



2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

ployed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices ; 
and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these services. 

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who 
was invisible to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slily and pinch 
him, and sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, 
in the likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then 
swiftly changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would 
lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's sharp 
quills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of such-like vexa- 
tious tricks Ariel would often torment him, whenever Caliban 
neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to do. 

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero 
could by their means command the winds, and the waves of the 
sea. By his orders they raised a violent storm, in the midst of 
which, and struggling with the wild sea-waves that every moment 
threatened to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine large 
ship, which he told her was full of living beings like themselves. 
" O my dear father," said she, " if by your art you have raised this 
dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See ! the vessel 
will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls ! they will all perish. If I 
had power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather than the 
good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious souls within 
her." 

" Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero; " there 
is no harm done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship 
shall receive any hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, 
my dear child. You are ignorant who you are, or where you came 
from, and you know no more of me, but that I am your father, and 
live in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before you came 
to this cell? I think you cannot, for you were not then three years 
of age." 

" Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 

" By what? " asked Prospero; "by any other house or person? 
Tell me what you can remember, my child." 



THE TEMPEST 3 

Miranda said, " It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. 
But had I not once four or five women who attended upon me? " 

Prospero answered, " You had, and more. How is it that this 
still lives in your mind? Do you remember how you came here? " 

" No, sir," said Miranda, " I remember nothing more." 

" Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, " I was duke 
of Milan, and you were a princess, and my only heir. I had a 
younger brother, whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted every- 
thing; and as I was fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly 
left the management of my state affairs to your uncle, my false 
brother (for so indeed he proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, 
buried among my books, did dedicate my whole time to the better- 
ing of my mind. My brother Antonio being thus in possession of 
my power, began to think himself the duke indeed. The oppor- 
tunity I gave him of making himself popular among my subjects 
awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my 
dukedom : this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples, 
a powerful prince, who was my enemy." 

" Wherefore," said Miranda, " did they not that hour destroy 
us?" 

" My child," answered her father, " they durst not, so dear was 
the love that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a 
ship, and when we were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into 
a small boat, without either tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us, 
as he thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, 
who loved me, had privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, 
apparel, and some books which I prize above my dukedom." 

" O my father," said Miranda, " what a trouble must I have 
been to you then ! " 

" No, my love," said Prospero, " you were a little cherub that 
did preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me bear up against 
my misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert 
island, since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, 
Miranda, and well have you profited by my instructions." 



4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

" Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. " Now 
pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm? " 

" Know then," said her father, " that by means of this storm, 
my enemies, the king of Naples, and my cruel brother, are cast 
ashore upon this island." 

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his 
magic wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just 
then presented himself before his master, to give an account of the 
tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's company, and 
though the spirits were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did 
not choose she should hear him holding converse (as would seem 
to her) with the empty air. 

" Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, " how have you 
performed your task? " 

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors 
of the mariners; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first 
who leaped into the sea ; and his father thought he saw his dear 
son swallowed up by the waves and lost. " But he is safe," said 
Ariel, " in a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly 
lamenting the loss of the king, his father, whom he concludes 
drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured, and his princely gar- 
ments, though drenched in the sea-waves, look fresher than before." 

" That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. " Bring him hither: 
my daughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and 
my brother? " 

" I left them," answered Ariel, " searching for Ferdinand, whom 
they have little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. 
Of the ship's crew not one is missing; though each one thinks him- 
self the only one saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is 
safe in the harbour." 

" Ariel," said Prospero, " thy charge is faithfully performed : 
but there is more work yet." 

"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, 
master, you have promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I 



THE TEMPEST 5 

have done you worthy service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, 
served you without grudge or grumbling." 

"How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect what a 
torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch 
Sycorax, who with age and envy was almost bent double? Where 
was she born? Speak; tell me." 

" Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 

"O was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount what you 
have been, which I find you do not remember. This bad witch, 
Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, 
was banished from Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and be- 
cause you were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked com- 
mands, she shut you ur' in a tree, where I found you howling. 
This torment, remember, I did free you from." 

" Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem un- 
grateful; "I will obey your commands." 

" Do so," said Prospero, " and I will set you free." He then 
gave orders what further he would have him do; and away went 
Ariel, first to where he had left Ferdinand, and found him still 
sitting on the grass in the same melancholy posture. 

" O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, " I will 
soon move you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady 
Miranda to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, fol- 
low me." He then began singing, 

" Full fathom five thy father lies : 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes: 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell." 

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from 
the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amaze- 



6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

ment the sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and 
Miranda, who were sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now 
Miranda had never seen a man before, except her own father. 

" Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me what you are looking at 
yonder." 

" O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, " surely that 
is a spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a 
beautiful creature. Is it not a spirit? " 

"No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has 
senses such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. 
He is somewhat altered by grief, or you might call him a hand- 
some person. He has lost his companions, and is wandering about 
to find them." 

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and grey beards 
like her father, was delighted with the appearance of this beauti- 
ful young prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this 
desert place, and from the strange sounds he had heard, expecting 
nothing but wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, 
and that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such he 
began to address her. 

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, 
and was going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero 
interrupted her. He was well pleased to find they admired each 
other, for he plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in 
love at first sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved 
to throw some difficulties in their way: therefore advancing for- 
ward, he addressed the prince with a stern air, telling him, he 
came to the island as a spy, to take it from him who was the lord 
of it. " Follow me," said he, " I will tie you neck and feet to- 
gether. You shall drink sea-water; shell-fish, withered roots, and 
husks of acorns shall be your food." " No," said Ferdinand, " I 
will resist such entertainment, till I see a more powerful enemy," 
and drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed 
him to the spot where he stood, so that he had no power to move. 



THE TEMPEST 7 

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, " Why are you so un- 
gentle? Have pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second 
man I ever saw, and to me he seems a true one." 

" Silence," said the father: " one word more will make me chide 
you, girl ! What ! an advocate for an impostor ! You think there 
are no more such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban. I 
tell you, foolish girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Cali- 
ban." This he said to prove his daughter's constancy; and she 
replied, " My affections are most humble. I have no wish to see 
a goodlier man." 

" Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince; " you have 
no power to disobey me." 

" I have not, indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that 
it was by magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was 
astonished to find himself so strangely compelled to follow Pros- 
pero : looking back on Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, 
as he went after Prospero into the cave, " My spirits are all bound 
up, as if I were in a dream; but this man's threats, and the weak- 
ness which I feel, would seem light to me if from my prison I 
might once a day behold this fair maid." 

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he 
soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to per- 
form, taking care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had 
imposed on him, and then pretending to go into his study, he se- 
cretly watched them both. 

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs 
of wood. Kings' sons not being much used to laborious work, 
Miranda soon after found her lover almost dying with fatigue. 
"Alas!" said she, "do not work so hard; my father is at his 
studies, he is safe for these three hours; pray rest yourself." 

" O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, " I dare not. I must finish 
my task before I take my rest." 

" If you will sit down," said Miranda, " I will carry your logs 
the while." But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. 



8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Instead of a help Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a 
long conversation, so that the business of log-carrying went on 
very slowly. 

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a 
trial of his love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, 
but was standing by them invisible, to overhear what they said. 

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was 
against her father's express command she did so. 

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's dis- 
obedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fall 
in love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her love by 
forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased 
to a long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her 
above all the ladies he ever saw. 

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded 
all the women in the world, she replied, " I do not remember the 
face of any woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my 
good friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad, I 
know not; but, believe me, sir, I would not wish any companion in 
the world but you, nor can my imagination form any shape but 
yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to you too freely, 
and my father's precepts I forget." 

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to 
say, " This goes on exactly as I could wish ; my girl will be queen 
of Naples." 

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young 
princes speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he 
was heir to the crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen. 

" Ah ! sir," said she, " I am a fool to weep at what I am glad 
of. I will answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your 
wife if you will marry me." 

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible be- 
fore them. 

" Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard, and ap- 



THE TEMPEST 9 

prove of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely 
used you, I will make you rich amends, by giving you my daugh- 
ter. All your vexations were but trials of your love, and you have 
nobly stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has 
worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I 
boast she is above all praise." He then, telling them that he had 
business which required his presence, desired they would sit down 
and talk together till he returned; and this command Miranda 
seemed not at all disposed to disobey. 

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly 
appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Pros- 
pero's brother and the king of Naples. Ariel said he had left them 
almost out of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had 
caused them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering 
about, and famished for want of food, he had suddenly set before 
them a delicious banquet, and then, just as they were going to eat, 
he appeared visible before them in the shape of a harpy, a voracious 
monster with wings, and the feast vanished away. Then, to their 
utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding 
them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and 
leaving him and his infant daughter to perish in the sea; saying, 
that for this cause these terrors were suffered to afflict them. 

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented the 
injustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel told his master he 
was certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, 
could not but pity them. 

" Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: "if you, who 
are but a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human 
being like themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, 
quickly, my dainty Ariel." 

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in 
their train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music 
he played in the air to draw them on to his master's presence. This 
Gonzalo was the same who had so kindly provided Prospero 



io TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

formerly with books and provisions, when his wicked brother left 
him, as he thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea. 

Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses, that they did not 
know Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gon- 
zalo, calling him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and 
the king knew that he was the injured Prospero. 

Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true repent- 
ance, implored his brother's forgiveness, and the king expressed 
his sincere remorse for having assisted Antonio to depose his 
brother : and Prospero forgave them ; and, upon their engaging 
to restore his dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, " I have a 
gift in store for you too;" and opening a door, showed him his 
son Ferdinand flaying at chess with Miranda. 

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this 
unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in 
the storm. 

" O wonder! " said Miranda, "what noble creatures these are! 
It must surely be a brave world that has such people in it." 

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty 
and excellent graces of the young Miranda, as his son had been. 
"Who is this maid?" said he; "she seems the goddess that has 
parted us, and brought us thus together." " No, sir," answered Fer- 
dinand, smiling to find his father had fallen into the same mistake 
that he had done when he first saw Miranda, " she is a mortal, but 
by immortal Providence she is mine; I chose her when I could not 
ask you, my father, for your consent, not thinking you were alive. 
She is the daughter to this Prospero, who is the famous duke of 
Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much, but never saw him 
till now: of him I have received a new life: he has made himself to 
me a second father, giving me this dear lady." 

"Then I must be her father," said the king; "but oh! how 
oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness." 

"No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not remember our 
troubles past, since they so happily have ended." And then Pros- 



THE TEMPEST n 

pero embraced his brother, and again assured him of his forgive- 
ness; and said that a wise over-ruling Providence had permitted 
that he should be driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his 
daughter might inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their meet- 
ing in this desert island, it had happened that the king's son had 
loved Miranda. 

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort 
his brother, so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he 
wept and was unable to speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to 
see this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young 
couple. 

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbour, 
and the sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter 
would accompany them home the next morning. " In the mean- 
time," says he, " partake of such refreshments as my poor cave 
affords ; and for your evening's entertainment I will relate the his- 
tory of my life from my first landing in this desert island." He 
then called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the cave in 
order; and the company were astonished at the uncouth form and 
savage appearance of this ugly monster, who (Prospero said) was 
the only attendant he had to wait upon him. 

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his 
service, to the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he 
had been a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to en- 
joy his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild 
bird, under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling 
flowers. " My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite 
when he made him free, " I shall miss you; yet you shall have your 
freedom." "Thank you, my dear master," said Ariel; "but give 
me leave to attend your ship home with prosperous gales, before 
you bid farewell to the assistance of your faithful spirit; and then, 
master, when I am free, how merrily I shall live! " Here Ariel 
sung this pretty song: 



12 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

" Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie: 

There I crouch when owls do cry 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and 
wand, for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic 
art. And having thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled 
to his brother and the king of Naples, nothing now remained to 
complete his happiness, but to revisit his native land, to take pos- 
session of his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his 
daughter and Prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be in- 
stantly celebrated with great splendour on their return to Naples. 
At which place, under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, 
after a pleasant voyage, soon arrived. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 

THERE was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its 
citizens the power of compelling their daughters to marry 
whomsoever they pleased; for upon a daughter's refusing 
to marry the man her father had chosen to be her husband, the 
father was empowered by this law to cause her to be put to death ; 
but as fathers do not often desire the death of their own daughters, 
even though they do happen to prove a little refractory, this law 
was seldom or never put in execution, though perhaps the young 
ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by their par- 
ents with the terrors of it. 

There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name 
was Egeus, who actually did come before Theseus (at that time 
the reigning duke of Athens), to complain that his daughter Her- 
mia, whom he had commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man 
of a noble Athenian family, refused to obey him, because she loved 
another young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus demanded 
justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law might be put in 
force against his daughter. 

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius 
had formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that 
Helena loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable rea- 
son, which Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command, 
moved not the stern Egeus. 

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to 
alter the laws of his country; therefore he could only give Hermia 
four days to consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she still 
refused to marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death. 

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, 
she went to her lover Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, 

13 



14 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

and that she must either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose 
her life in four days. 

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; 
but recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance 
from Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law 
could not be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending 
beyond the boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia that 
she should steal out of her father's house that night, and go with 
him to his aunt's house, where he would marry her. " I will meet 
you," said Lysander, " in the wood, a few miles without the city; 
in that delightful wood, where we have so often walked with Helena 
in the pleasant month of May." 

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one 
of her intended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens 
will do foolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go 
and tell this to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from 
betraying her friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following 
her faithless lover to the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius 
would go thither in pursuit of Hermia. 

The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet, 
was the favourite haunt of those little beings known by the name 
of Fairies. 

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the Fairies, with all 
their tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels. 

Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at 
this time, a sad disagreement; they never met by moonlight in the 
shady walks of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all 
their fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves 
for fear. 

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing 
to give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been 
Titania's friend; and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child 
from its nurse, and brought him up in the woods. 

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 15 

Titania was walking with some of her maids of honour, she met 
Oberon attended by his train of fairy courtiers. 

" 111 met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. 
The queen replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, 
skip hence; I have forsworn his company." "Tarry, rash fairy," 
said Oberon; " am not I thy lord? Why does Titania cross her 
Oberon? Give me your little changeling boy to be my page." 

"Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole 
fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in 
great anger. "Well, go your way," said Oberon: "before the 
morning dawns I will torment you for this injury." 

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy coun- 
sellor. 

Puck, (or as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was 
a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in 
the neighbouring villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and 
skimming the milk, sometimes plunging his light and airy form into 
the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in 
the churn, in vain the dairy-maid would labour to change her 
cream into butter : nor had the village swains any better success ; 
whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the brewing copper, the 
ale was sure to be spoiled. When a few good neighbours were 
met to drink some comfortable ale together, Puck would jump into 
the bowl of ale in the likeness of a roasted crab, and when some 
old goody was going to drink he would bob against her lips, and 
spill the ale over her withered chin; and presently after, when the 
same old dame was gravely seating herself to tell her neighbours 
a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip her three-legged stool 
from under her, and down toppled the poor old woman, and then 
the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear 
they never wasted a merrier hour. 

" Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer 
of the night; " fetch me the flower which maids call Love in Idle- 
ness; the juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of 



1 6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

those who sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote on the 
first thing they see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop 
on the eyelids of my Titania when she is asleep ; and the first thing 
she looks upon when she opens her eyes she will fall in love with, 
even though it be a lion or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy 
ape; and before I will take this charm from off her sight, which I 
can do with another charm I know of, I will make her give me that 
boy to be my page." 

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with 
this intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower ; and 
while Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Deme- 
trius and Helena enter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproach- 
ing Helena for following him, and after many unkind words on 
his part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding him 
of his former love and professions of true faith to her, he left her 
(as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him 
as swiftly as she could. 

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great 
compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to 
walk by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen 
Helena in those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. 
However that might be, when Puck returned with the little purple 
flower, Oberon said to his favourite, " Take a part of this 
flower; there has been a sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love 
with a disdainful youth; if you find him sleeping, drop some of the 
love-juice in his eyes, but contrive to do it when she is near him, 
that the first thing he sees when he awakes may be this despised 
lady. You will know the man by the Athenian garments which 
he wears." Puck promised to manage this matter very dexter- 
ously: and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her bower, 
where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a 
bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a 
canopy of wood-bine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania 
always slept some part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 17 

skin of a snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough 
to wrap a fairy in. 

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to 
employ themselves while she slept. " Some of you," said her maj- 
esty, " must kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, and some wage war 
with the bats for their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; 
and some of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly 
hoots, come not near me: but first sing me to sleep." Then they 
began to sing this song: — 

" You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; 
Newts and blind-worms do no wrong, 
Come not near our Fairy Queen. 
Philomel, with melody, 
Sing in your sweet lullaby, 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; 
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
So good night with lullaby." 

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty 
lullaby, they left her to perform the important services she had 
enjoined them. Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and 
dropped some of the love-juice on her eyelids, saying, — 

" What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
Do it for thy true-love take." 

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her fath- 
er's house that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for 
refusing to marry Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she 
found her dear Lysander waiting for her, to conduct her to his 
aunt's house; but before they had passed half through the wood, 
Hermia was so much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very care- 
ful of this dear lady, who had proved her affection for him even 
by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded her to rest till morn- 



1 8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

ing on a bank of soft moss, and lying down himself on the ground 
at some little distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Here they were 
found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, and 
perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and 
that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this must 
be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had 
sent him to seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as they 
were alone together, she must be the first thing he would see when 
he awoke ; so, without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the 
juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out, 
that Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first 
object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes; and strange to 
relate, so powerful was the love-charm, all his love for Hermia 
vanished away, and Lysander fell in love with Helena. 

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck com- 
mitted would have been of no consequence, for he could not love 
that faithful lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by 
a fairy love-charm to forget his own true Hermia, and to run after 
another lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at mid- 
night, was a sad chance indeed. 

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before 
related, endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran 
away so rudely from her; but she could not continue this unequal 
race long, men being always better runners in a long race than 
ladies. Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was wan- 
dering about, dejected and forlorn, she arrived at the place where 
Lysander was sleeping. " Ah! " said she, " this is Lysander lying 
on the ground: is he dead or asleep?" Then, gently touching 
him, she said, " Good sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this 
Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm beginning to work) 
immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant love and admi- 
ration; telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a dove 
does a raven, and that he would run through fire for her sweet 
sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena, knowing 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 19 

Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was solemnly 
engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard her- 
self addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well she might) 
that Lysander was making a jest of her. " Oh! " said she, " why 
was I born to be mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not 
enough, is it not enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet 
look or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in 
this disdainful manner to court me? I thought, Lysander, you 
were a lord of more true gentleness." Saying these words in great 
anger, she ran away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful 
of his own Hermia, who was still asleep. 

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself 
alone. She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was 
become of Lysander, or which way to go to seek for him. In the 
meantime Demetrius not being able to find Hermia and his rival 
Lysander, and fatigued with his fruitless search, was observed by 
Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt by some questions he had 
asked of Puck, that he had applied the love-charm to the wrong 
person's eyes; and now having found the person first intended, he 
touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, 
and he instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being Helena, 
he, as Lysander had done before, began to address love-speeches to 
her; and just at that moment Lysander, followed by Hermia (for 
through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia's turn 
to run after her lover) made his appearance; and then Lysander 
and Demetrius, both speaking together, made love to Helena, they 
being each one under the influence of the same potent charm. 

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and 
her once dear friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make 
a jest of her. 

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena : she knew not why 
Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now 
become the lovers of Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed 
to be no jest. 



20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, 
now fell to high words together. 

" Unkind Hermia," said Helena, " it is you have set Lysander 
on to vex me with mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, 
who used almost to spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him 
call me goddess, nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? He would 
not speak thus to me, whom he hates, if you did not set him on 
to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to join with men in scorn- 
ing your poor friend. Have you forgot our school-day friend- 
ship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on one cushion, 
both singing one song, with our needles working the same flower, 
both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in fashion 
of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted! Hermia, it is not 
friendly in you, it is not maidenly to join with men in scorning your 
poor friend." 

"I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I 
scorn you not; it seems you scorn me." " Ay, do," returned Hel- 
ena, " persevere, counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me 
when I turn my back; then wink at each other, and hold the sweet 
jest up. If you had any pity, grace, or manners, you would not 
use me thus." 

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to 
each other, Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together 
in the wood for the love of Helena. 

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, 
and once more wandered weary in the wood in search of their 
lovers. 

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with little Puck 
had been listening to their quarrels, said to him, " This is your neg- 
ligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully? " " Believe me, king 
of shadows," answered Puck, " it was a mistake; did not you tell 
me I should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, 
I am not sorry this has happened, for I think their jangling makes 
excellent sport." " You heard," said Oberon, " that Demetrius 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 21 

and Lysander are gone to seek a convenient place to fight in. I 
command you to overhang the night with a thick fog, and lead these 
quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not be 
able to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the 
other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to follow you, while 
they think it is their rival's tongue they hear. See you do this, till 
they are so weary they can go no farther; and when you find they 
are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower into Lysander's eyes, 
and when he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and 
return to his old passion for Hermia ; and then the two fair ladies 
may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they will think 
all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly, Puck, 
and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found." 

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, 
who had lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: " This 
fellow," said he, " shall be my Titania's true love " ; and clapping an 
ass's head over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had 
grown upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's 
head on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious 
of what Oberon had done to him, he went towards the bower where 
the fairy queen slept. 

" Ah! what angel is that I see? " said Titania, opening her eyes, 
and the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect: 
" are you as wise as you are beautiful? " 

" Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, " if I have wit enough 
to find the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn." 

" Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamoured 
queen. " I am a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with 
me, and I will give you fairies to attend upon you." 

She then called four of her fairies : their names were, Pease-blos- 
som, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed. 

"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman; hop in 
his walks, and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apri- 
cots, and steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit 



22 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

with me," said she to the clown, " and let me play with your ami- 
able hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, 
my gentle joy! " 

"Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown, not 
much regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his 
new attendants. 

" Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. 

" Scratch my head," said the clown. " Where is Cobweb? " 

" Here, sir," said Cobweb. 

" Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, " kill me the red 
humble bee on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cob- 
web, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the 
action, Mr. Cobweb, and take care the honey-bag break not; I 
should be sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where 
is Mustard-seed? " 

" Here, sir," said Mustard-seed: " what is your will? " 

" Nothing," said the clown, " good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to 
help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch ; I must go to a barber's, 
Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about 
the face." 

" My sweet love," said the queen, " what will you have to eat? 
I have a venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch 
you some new nuts." 

" I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, 
who with his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. " But, I pray, 
let none of your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep." 

" Sleep, then," said the queen, " and I will wind you in my arms. 
O how I love you ! how I dote upon you ! " 

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his 
queen, he advanced within her sight, and reproached her with hav- 
ing lavished her favours upon an ass. 

This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within 
her arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers. 

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 23 

the changeling boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her 
lord with her new favourite, did not dare to refuse him. 

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished 
for to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, 
by his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw 
some of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy 
queen immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late 
dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange mon- 
ster. 

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left 
him to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders. 

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he re- 
lated to her the history of the lovers, and their midnight quar- 
rels; and she agreed to go with him and see the end of their ad- 
ventures. 

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, 
at no great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for 
Puck, to make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with 
the utmost diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown 
to each other; and he had carefully removed the charm from off 
the eyes of Lysander with the antidote the fairy king gave to him. 

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near 
her, was looking at him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. 
Lysander presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, 
recovered his reason which the fairy charm had before clouded, 
and with his reason, his love for Hermia ; and they began to talk 
over the adventures of the night, doubting if these things had really 
happened, or if they had both been dreaming the same bewildering 
dream. 

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet 
sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she list- 
ened with delight to the professions of love which Demetrius still 
made to her, and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she 
began to perceive were sincere. 



24 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became 
once more true friends ; all the unkind words which had passed 
were forgiven, and they calmly consulted together what was best 
to be done in their present situation. It was soon agreed that, as 
Demetrius had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should en- 
deavour to prevail upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence of 
death which had been passed against her. Demetrius was prepar- 
ing to return to Athens for this friendly purpose, when they were 
surprised with the sight of Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to 
the wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry 
his daughter, he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, 
but gave his consent that they should be wedded on the fourth day 
from that time, being the same day on which Hermia had been 
condemned to lose her life; and on that same day Helena joyfully 
agreed to marry her beloved and now faithful Demetrius. 

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this 
reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history, 
brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so 
much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the ap- 
proaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy 
kingdom. 

And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their 
pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think 
that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adven- 
tures were visions which they saw in their sleep : and I hope none of 
my readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty, 
harmless Midsummer Night's Dream. 



THE WINTER'S TALE 

LEONTES, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and 
virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony to- 
gether. So happy was Leontes in the love of this excellent 
lady, that he had no wish ungratified, except that he sometimes de- 
sired to see again, and to present to his queen, his old companion 
and school-fellow, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. Leontes and 
Polixenes were brought up together from their infancy, but being, 
by the death of their fathers, called to reign over their respective 
kingdoms, they had not met for many years, though they frequently 
interchanged gifts, letters, and loving embassies. 

At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from 
Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make his friend Leontes a visit. 

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He 
recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's particular at- 
tention, and seemed in the presence of his dear friend and old com- 
panion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked over old 
times; their school-days and their youthful pranks were remem- 
bered, and recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful 
part in these conversations. 

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to depart, 
Hermione, at the desire of her husband, joined her entreaties to his 
that Polixenes would prolong his visit. 

And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refus- 
ing to stay at the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's 
gentle and persuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks 
longer. Upon this, although Leontes had so long known the in- 
tegrity and honourable principles of his friend Polixenes, as well 
as the excellent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with 
an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to 

25 



26 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Polixenes, though by her husband's particular desire, and merely 
to please him, increased the unfortunate king's jealousy; and from 
being a loving and a true friend, and the best and fondest of hus- 
bands, Leontes became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster. 
Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, and telling him 
of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded him to poison 
Polixenes. 

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy 
of Leontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of 
poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's 
orders, and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions ; 
and Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his 
own kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time in 
the king's court, and became the chief friend and favourite of 
Polixenes. 

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; 
he went to the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting 
with her little son Mamillius, who was just beginning to tell one of 
his best stories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and 
taking the child away, sent Hermione to prison. 

Mamillius, though but a very young child, loved his mother 
tenderly; and when he saw her so dishonoured, and found she was 
taken from him to be put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, 
and drooped and pined away by slow degrees, losing his appetite 
and his sleep, till it was thought his grief would kill him. 

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded 
Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there 
to inquire of the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had 
been unfaithful to him. 

When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought 
to bed of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort 
from the sight of her pretty baby, and she said to it, " My poor 
little prisoner, I am as innocent as you are." 

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who 



THE WINTER'S TALE 27 

was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the lady 
Paulina heard her royal mistress was brought to bed, she went to 
the prison where Hermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, 
a lady who attended upon Hermione, " I pray you, Emilia, tell the 
good queen, if her majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will 
carry it to the king, its father; we do not know how he may soften 
at the sight of his innocent child." " Most worthy madam," re- 
plied Emilia, " I will acquaint the queen with your noble offer; she 
was wishing to-day that she had any friend who would venture to 
present the child to the king." " And tell her," said Paulina, 
" that I will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence." " May you 
be for ever blessed," said Emilia, " for your kindness to our 
gracious queen!" Emilia then went to Hermione, who joyfully 
gave up her baby to the care of Paulina, for she had feared 
that no one would dare venture to present the child to its 
father. 

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the 
king's presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's 
anger, endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's 
feet, and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of 
Hermione, and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, 
and implored him to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. 
But Paulina's spirited remonstrances only aggravated Leontes' dis- 
pleasure, and he ordered her husband Antigonus to take her from 
his presence. 

When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its^ father's 
feet, thinking when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, 
and have pity on its helpless innocence. 

The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was she gone than 
the merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take 
the child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert 
shore to perish. 

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders 
of Leontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and 



28 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

put out to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could 
find. 

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that 
he would not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he 
had sent to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the 
queen was recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the 
loss of her precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial be- 
fore all the lords and nobles of his court. And when all the great 
lords, the judges, and all the nobility of the land were assembled 
together to try Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing 
as a prisoner before her subjects to receive their judgment, Cleo- 
menes and Dion entered the assembly, and presented to the king 
the answer of the oracle, sealed up; and Leontes commanded the 
seal to be broken, and the words of the oracle to be read aloud, and 
these were the words : — " Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blame- 
less, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the king 
shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found." The 
king would give no credit to the words of the oracle : he said it 
was a falsehood invented by the queen's friends, and he desired the 
judge to proceed in the trial of the queen; but while Leontes was 
speaking, a man entered and told him that the prince Mamillius, 
hearing his mother was to be tried for her life, struck with grief and 
shame, had suddenly died. 

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate 
child, who had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; 
and Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for 
his unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were 
her attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. 
Paulina soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead. 

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his 
cruelty to her; and now that he thought his ill-usage had broken 
Hermione's heart, he believed her innocent; and now he thought 
the words of the oracle were true, as he knew " if that which was 
lost was not found," which he concluded was his young daughter, 



THE WINTER'S TALE 29 

he should be without an heir, the young prince Mamillius being 
dead; and he would give his kingdom now to recover his lost 
daughter: and Leontes gave himself up to remorse, and passed 
many years in mournful thoughts and repentant grief. 

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to 
sea was driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very 
kingdom of the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and 
here he left the little baby. 

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had 
left his daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came 
out of the woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him 
for obeying the wicked order of Leontes. 

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione 
had made it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus 
had pinned a paper to its mantle, and the name of Perdita written 
thereon, and words obscurely intimating its high birth and un- 
toward fate. 

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a 
humane man, and so he carried the little Perdita home to his wife, 
who nursed it tenderly; but poverty tempted the shepherd to con- 
ceal the rich prize he had found: therefore he left that part of the 
country, that no one might know where he got his riches, and with 
part of Perdita's jewels he bought herds of sheep, and became a 
wealthy shepherd. He brought up Perdita as his own child, and 
she knew not she was any other than a shepherd's daughter. 

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had 
no better education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did 
the natural graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth 
in her untutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would have 
known she had not been brought up in her father's court. 

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name 
was Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shep- 
herd's dwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the 
beauty, modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him 



3 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

instantly to fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of 
Doricles, and in the disguise of a private gentleman, became a con- 
stant visitor at the old shepherd's house. Florizel's frequent ab- 
sences from court alarmed Polixenes; and setting people to watch 
his son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's fair daughter. 

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had 
preserved his life from the fury of Leontes, and desired that he 
would accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed 
father of Perdita. 

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shep- 
herd's dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shear- 
ing; and though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every 
guest being made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join 
in the general festivity. 

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward. Tables were 
spread, and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. 
Some lads and lasses were dancing on the green before the house, 
while others of the young men were buying ribands, gloves, and such 
toys, of a pedlar at the door. 

While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita 
sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the con- 
versation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports and 
silly amusements of those around them. 

The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could 
know him : he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversa- 
tion. The simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed 
with his son did not a little surprise Polixenes : he said to Camillo, 
" This is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or 
says but looks like something greater than herself, too noble for this 
place." 

Camillo replied, " Indeed she is the very queen of curds and 
cream." 

" Pray, my good friend," said the king to »the old shepherd, 
"what fair swain is that talking with your daughter?" "They 





"this poor dkserted baby was found by a shepherd"-/ 5 ^ 29 



THE WINTER'S TALE 31 

call him Doricles," replied the shepherd. " He says he loves my 
daughter; and, to speak truth, there is not a kiss to choose which 
loves the other best. If young Doricles can get her, she shall bring 
him that he little dreams of; " meaning the remainder of Perdita's 
jewels; which, after he had bought herds of sheep with part of them, 
he had carefully hoarded up for her marriage portion. 

Polixenes & *n addressed his son. " How now, young man ! " 
said he : " your heart seems full of something that takes off your mind 
from feasting. When I was young, I used to load my love with 
presents ; but you have let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass 
no toy." 

The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king, 
his father, replied, "Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts 
which Perdita expects from me are locked up in my heart." Then 
turning to Perdita, he said to her, " O hear me, Perdita, before 
this ancient gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he 
shall hear what I profess." Florizel then called upon the old 
stranger to be a witness to a solemn promise of marriage which 
he made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, " I pray you, mark our 
contract." 

" Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, discovering him- 
self. Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract him- 
self to this low-born maiden, calling Perdita " shepherd's-brat, 
sheep-hook," and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever 
she suffered his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old 
shepherd, her father, to a cruel death. 

The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to 
follow him with prince Florizel. 

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was 
roused by Polixenes' reproaches, said, " Though we are all undone, 
I was not much afraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and 
tell him plainly that the selfsame sun which shines upon his palace, 
hides not his face from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then 
sorrowfully she said, " But now I am awakened from this dream, 



32 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

I will queen it no further. Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes 
and weep." 

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and pro- 
priety of Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince 
was too deeply in love to give up his mistress at the command 
of his royal father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, 
and at the same time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his 
mind. 

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of Sicily, was 
become a true penitent; and though Camillo was now the favoured 
friend of king Polixenes, he could not help wishing once more to 
see his late royal master and his native home. He therefore pro- 
posed to Florizel and Perdita that they should accompany him to 
the Sicilian court, where he would engage Leontes should protect 
them, till, through his mediation, they could obtain pardon from 
Polixenes, and his consent to their marriage. 

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who con- 
ducted everything relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd 
to go along with them. 

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, 
her baby clothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her 
mantle. 

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and 
the old shepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. 
Leontes, who still mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, 
received Camillo with great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome 
to prince Florizel. But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his 
princess, seemed to engross all Leontes' attention : perceiving a re- 
semblance between her and his dead queen Hermione, his grief 
broke out afresh, and he said, such a lovely creature might his own 
daughter have been, if he had not so cruelly destroyed her. " And 
then, too," said he to Florizel, " I lost the society and friendship of 
your brave father, whom I now desire more than my life once again 
to look upon." 



THE WINTER'S TALE 33 

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had 
taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed 
in infancy, he fell to comparing the time when he found the little 
Perdita, with the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other 
tokens of its high birth; from all which it was impossible for him 
not to conclude that Perdita and the king's lost daughter were the 
same. 

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were 
present when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in 
which he had found the child, and also the circumstance of Anti- 
gonus' death, he having seen the bear seize upon him. He showed 
the rich mantle in which Paulina remembered Hermione had 
wrapped the child; and he produced a jewel which she remembered 
Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, and he gave up the paper 
which Paulina knew to be the writing of her husband; it could not 
be doubted that Perdita was Leontes' own daughter : but oh ! the 
noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her husband's death, 
and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long- 
lost daughter being found. When Leontes heard that Perdita was 
his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that Hermione was not 
living to behold her child, made him that he could say nothing for 
a long time, but, " O thy mother, thy mother ! " 

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to 
Leontes, that she had a statue newly finished by that rare Italian 
master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the 
queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and 
look upon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione 
herself. Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the 
semblance of his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the 
mother she never saw did look like. 

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this 
famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the 
king's sorrow was renewed at the sight : for a long time he had 
no power to speak or move. 



34 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

" I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina, " it the more shows 
your wonder. Is not this statue very like your queen? " 

At length the king said, " O, thus she stood, even with such 
majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was 
not so aged as this statue looks." Paulina replied, " So much the 
more the carver's excellence, who has made the statue as Hermione 
would have looked had she been living now. But let me draw the 
curtain, sire, lest presently you think it moves." 

The king then said, " Do not draw the curtain ! Would I were 
dead! See, Camillo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye 
seems to have motion in it." " I must draw the curtain, my liege," 
said Paulina. " You are so transported, you will persuade yourself 
the statue lives." " O, sweet Paulina," said Leontes, " make me 
think so twenty years together ! Still methinks there is an air 
comes from her. What fine chisel could ever yet cut breath ? Let no 
man mock me, for I will kiss her." " Good my lord, forbear ! " said 
Paulina. " The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you will stain your 
own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?" "No, not 
these twenty years," said Leontes. 

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in 
silent admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now, " And 
so long could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother." 

" Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, " and 
let me draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. 
I can make the statue move indeed; ay, and descend from off the 
pedestal, and take you by the hand. But then you will think, which 
I protest I am not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." 

" What you can make her do," said the astonished king, " I am 
content to look upon. What you can make her speak, I am content 
to hear; for it is as easy to make her speak as move." 

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she 
had prepared for the purpose, to strike up ; and, to the amazement 
of all the beholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and 



THE WINTER'S TALE 35 

threw its arms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to 
speak, praying for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the 
newly-found Perdita. 

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed 
her husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed 
Hermione herself, the real, the living queen. 

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione, 
thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress' life; 
and with the good Paulina, Hermione had lived ever since, never 
choosing Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita 
was found; for though she had long forgiven the injuries which 
Leontes had done to herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his 
infant daughter. 

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the 
long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own 
happiness. 

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard 
on all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel 
for loving their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the 
good old shepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo 
and Paulina rejoice that they had lived to see so good an end of all 
their faithful services. 

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange 
and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now entered the 
palace. 

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that 
Camillo had long wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should 
find the fugitives here; and, following them with all speed, he hap- 
pened to just arrive at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life. 

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend 
Leontes the unjust jealousy he had conceived against him, and they 
once more loved each other with all the warmth of their first boyish 
friendship. And there was no fear that Polixenes would now op- 



36 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

pose his son's marriage with Perdita. She was no " sheep-hook " 
now, but the heiress of the crown of Sicily. 

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Her- 
mione rewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her 
Leontes and her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens. 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 

THERE lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose 
names were Hero and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, 
and Beatrice the niece, of Leonato, the governor of 
Messina. 

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin 
Hero, who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly 
sallies. Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of 
mirth for the light-hearted Beatrice. 

At the time the history of these ladies commences some young 
men of high rank in the army, as they were passing through Mes- 
sina on their return from a war that was just ended, in which they 
had distinguished themselves by their great bravery, came to visit 
Leonato. Among these were Don Pedro, the Prince of Arragon; 
and his friend Claudio, who was a lord of Florence ; and with them 
came the wild and witty Benedick, and he was a lord of Padua. 

These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable 
governor introduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old 
friends and acquaintance. 

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively con- 
versation with Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not 
to be left out of any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying, 
" I wonder that you will still be talking, signior Benedick : nobody 
marks you." Benedick was just such another rattle-brain as Bea- 
trice, yet he was not pleased at this free salutation; he thought it 
did not become a well-bred lady to be so flippant with her tongue; 
and he remembered, when he was last at Messina, that Beatrice 
used to select him to make her merry jests upon. And as there is 
no one who so little likes to be made a jest of as those who are apt 
to take the same liberty themselves, so it was with Benedick and 

37 



38 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in former times but a per- 
fect war of raillery was kept up between them, and they always 
parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore when 
Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling 
him nobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to 
have observed before that she was present, said, " What, my dear 
lady Disdain, are you yet living? " And now war broke out afresh 
between them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during which 
Beatrice, although she knew he had so well approved his valour in 
the late war, said that she would eat all he had killed there : and ob- 
serving the prince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she 
called him " the prince's jester." This sarcasm sunk deeper into 
the mind of Benedick than all Beatrice had said before. The hint 
she gave him that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all 
he had killed, he did not regard, knowing himself to be a brave 
man; but there is nothing that great wits so much dread as the 
imputation of buffoonery, because the charge comes sometimes a 
little too near the truth: therefore Benedick perfectly hated 
Beatrice, when she called him " the prince's jester." 

The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and 
while Claudio was attentively observing the improvement which 
time had made in her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite 
graces of her fine figure (for she was an admirable young lady), 
the prince was highly amused with listening to the humorous 
dialogue between Benedick and Beatrice; and he said in a whisper 
to Leonato, " This is a pleasant-spirited young lady. She were 
an excellent wife for Benedick." Leonato replied to this sugges- 
tion, " O, my lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, they 
would talk themselves mad." But though Leonato thought they 
would make a discordant pair, the prince did not give up the idea 
of matching these two keen wits together. 

When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he 
found that the marriage he had devised between Benedick and 
Beatrice was not the only one projected in that good company, 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 39 

for Claudio spoke in such terms of Hero, as made the prince guess 
at what was passing in his heart; and he liked it well, and he said 
to Claudio, "Do you affect Hero?" To this question Claudio 
replied, " O my lord, when I was last at Messina, I looked upon 
her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had no leisure for loving; 
but now, in this happy time of peace, thoughts of war have left 
their places vacant in my mind, and in their room come throng- 
ing soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how fair young 
Hero is, reminding me that I liked her before I went to the wars." 
Claudio's confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the 
prince, that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to 
accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this pro- 
posal, and the prince found no great difficulty in persuading the 
gentle Hero herself to listen to the suit of the noble Claudio, who 
was a lord of rare endowments, and highly accomplished, and 
Claudio, assisted by his kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato 
to fix an early day for the celebration of his marriage with Hero. 

Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be mar- 
ried to his fair lady; yet he complained of the interval being 
tedious, as indeed most young men are impatient when they are 
waiting for the accomplishment of any event they have set their 
hearts upon: the prince, therefore, to make the time seem short to 
him, proposed as a kind of merry pastime that they should invent 
some artful scheme to make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with 
each other. Claudio entered with great satisfaction into this whim 
of the prince, and Leonato promised them his assistance, and even 
Hero said she would do any modest office to help her cousin to a 
good husband. 

The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should 
make Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that 
Hero should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love with 
her. 

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their operations first: 
and watching upon an opportunity when Benedick was quietly 



4 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

seated reading in an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their 
station among the trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick 
could not choose but hear all they said; and after some careless 
talk the prince said, " Come hither, Leonato. What was it you 
told me the other day — that your niece Beatrice was in love with 
signior Benedick? I did never think that lady would have loved 
any man." " No, nor I neither, my lord," answered Leonato. 
" It is most wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick, whom 
she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to dislike." Claudio 
confirmed all this with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice 
was so in love with Benedick, that she would certainly die of 
grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and 
Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he having always been 
such a railer against all fair ladies, and in particular against 
Beatrice. 

The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compas- 
sion for Beatrice, and he said, " It were good that Benedick were 
told of this." "To what end?" said Claudio; "he would but 
make sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse." " And if 
he should," said the prince, "it were a good deed to hang him; 
for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in every- 
thing but in loving Benedick." Then the prince motioned to his 
companions that they should walk on, and leave Benedick to medi- 
tate upon what he had overheard. 

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this con- 
versation; and he said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved 
him, " Is it possible? Sits the wind in that corner? " And when 
they were gone, he began to reason in this manner with himself: 
" This can be no trick! they were very serious, and they have the 
truth from Hero, and seem to pity the lady. Love me ! Why 
it must be requited I I did never think to marry. But when I 
said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I should live to be 
married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She is so. 
And wise in everything but loving me. Why, that is no great 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 41 

argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, 
she is a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice 
now approached him, and said with her usual tartness, " Against 
my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who 
never felt himself disposed to speak so politely to her before, re- 
plied, "Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains:" and when 
Beatrice, after two or three more rude speeches, left him, Bene- 
dick thought he observed a concealed meaning of kindness under 
the uncivil words she uttered, and he said aloud, " If I do not take 
pity on her, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a Jew. I 
will go get her picture." 

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for 
him, it was now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and 
for this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentle- 
women who attended upon her, and she said to Margaret, " Good 
Margaret, run to the parlour; there you will find my cousin 
Beatrice talking with the prince and Claudio. Whisper in her 
ear, that I and Ursula are walking in the orchard, and that our 
discourse is all of her. Bid her steal into that pleasant arbour, 
where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, like ungrateful minions, 
forbid the sun to enter." This arbour, into which Hero desired 
Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same pleasant arbour 
where Benedick had so lately been an attentive listener. 

" I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret. 

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her, 
" Now, Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down 
this alley, and our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name 
him, let it be your part to praise him more than ever man did merit. 
My talk to you must be how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now 
begin; for look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the 
ground, to hear our conference." They then began; Hero saying, 
as if in answer to something which Ursula had said, " No, truly, 
Ursula. She is too disdainful; her spirits are as coy as wild birds 
of the rock." " But are you sure," said Ursula, " that Benedick 



42 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

loves Beatrice so entirely?" Hero replied, "So says the prince, 
and my lord Claudio, and they entreated me to acquaint her with 
it; but I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to let Bea- 
trice know of it." " Certainly," replied Ursula, " it were not good 
she knew his love, lest she made sport of it." " Why, to say truth," 
said Hero, " I never yet saw a man, how wise soever, or noble, 
young, or rarely featured, but she would dispraise him." " Sure, 
sure, such carping is not commendable," said Ursula. " No," re- 
plied Hero, "but who dare tell her so? If I should speak, she 
would mock me into air." " O ! you wrong your cousin," said 
Ursula: "she cannot be so much without true judgment, as to re- 
fuse so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick." " He hath an ex- 
cellent good name," said Hero: " indeed, he is the first man in Italy, 
always excepting my dear Claudio." And now, Hero giving her 
attendant a hint that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula 
said, "And when are you to be married, madam?" Hero then 
told her, that she was to be married to Claudia the next day, and 
desired she would go in with her, and look at some new attire, as 
she wished to consult with her on what she would wear on the mor- 
row. Beatrice, who had been listening with breathless eagerness 
to this dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed, " What fire is in 
mine ears? Can this be true? Farewell, contempt and scorn, and 
maiden pride, adieu ! Benedick, love on ! I will requite you, tam- 
ing my wild heart to your loving hand." 

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies con- 
verted into new and loving friends, and to behold their first meeting 
after being cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the 
good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero 
must now be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been 
her wedding-day, brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her 
good father Leonato. 

The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along 
with him to Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) 
was a melancholy, discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 43 

in the contriving of villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and 
he hated Claudio, because he was the prince's friend, and determined 
to prevent Claudio's marriage with Hero, only for the malicious 
pleasure of making Claudio and the prince unhappy; for he knew 
the prince had set his heart upon this marriage, almost as much as 
Claudio himself; and to effect this wicked purpose, he employed 
one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whom he encouraged with 
the offer of a great reward. This Borachio paid his court to Mar- 
garet, Hero's attendant; and Don John, knowing this, prevailed 
upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with him from her lady's 
chamber window that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to dress 
herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into the be- 
lief that it was Hero ; for that was the end he meant to compass by 
this wicked plot. 

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that 
Hero was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from 
her chamber window at midnight. Now this was the evening be- 
fore the wedding, and he offered to take them that night, where 
they should themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man from her 
window; and they consented to go along with him, and Claudio 
said, " If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her, to- 
morrow in the congregation, where I intended to wed her, there will 
I shame her." The prince also said, " And as I assisted you to 
obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace her." 

When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, 
they saw Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Marga- 
ret looking out of Hero's window, and heard her talking with Bo- 
rachio : and Margaret being dressed in the same clothes they had 
seen Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it was the lady 
Hero herself. 

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made 
(as he thought) this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero 
was at once converted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in 
the church, as he had said he would, the next day; and the prince 



44 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

agreed to this, thinking no punishment could be too severe for the 
naughty lady, who talked with a man from her window that very 
night before she was going to be married to the noble Claudio. 

The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage, 
and Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the 
priest, or friar, as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce the 
marriage ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language, pro- 
claimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange 
words he uttered, said meekly, " Is my lord well, that he does 
speak so wide? " 

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, " My lord, 
why speak not you? " " What should I speak? " said the prince; 
" I stand dishonoured, that have gone about to link my dear friend 
to an unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my 
brother, and this grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last night at 
midnight talk with a man at her chamber window." 

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, " This looks 
not like a nuptial." 

"True, O God! " replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this 
hapless lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. 
The prince and Claudio left the church, without staying to see if 
Hero would recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they 
had thrown Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them. 

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from 
her swoon, saying, " How does the lady? " " Dead, I think," re- 
plied Beatrice in great agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing 
her virtuous principles, she believed nothing of what she had heard 
spoken against her. Not so the poor old father; he believed the 
story of his child's shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting 
over her, as she lay like one dead before him, wishing she might 
never more open her eyes. 

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on 
human nature, and he had attentively marked the lady's counte- 
nance when she heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blush- 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 45 

ing shames to start into her face, and then he saw an angel-like 
whiteness bear away those blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that 
did belie the error that the prince did speak against her maiden 
truth, and he said to the sorrowing father, " Call me a fool; trust 
not my reading, nor my observation; trust not my age, my reverence, 
nor my calling, if this sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some 
biting error." 

When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had 
fallen, the friar said to her, " Lady, what man is he you are accused 
of? " Hero replied, "They know that do accuse me; I know of 
none : " then turning to Leonato, she said, " O my father, if you can 
prove that any man has ever conversed with me at hours unmeet, 
or that I yesternight changed words with any creature, refuse me, 
hate me, torture me to death." 

" There is," said the friar, " some strange misunderstanding in 
the prince and Claudio; " and then he counselled Leonato, that he 
should report that Hero was dead; and he said that the death-like 
swoon in which they had left Hero would make this easy of belief; 
and he also advised him that he should put on mourning, and erect 
a monument for her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. 
"What shall become of this?" said Leonato; "What will this 
do? " The friar replied, "This report of her death shall change 
slander into pity: that is some good; but that is not all the good I 
hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died upon hearing his 
words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his imagination. 
Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his heart, and wish 
that he had not so accused her; yea, though he thought his accusation 
true." 

Benedick now said, " Leonato, let the friar advise you ; and though 
you know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour 
I will not reveal this secret to them." 

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully, " I am 
so grieved, that the smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar 
then led Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and 



46 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Beatrice and Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting 
from which their friends, who contrived the merry plot against 
them, expected so much diversion; those friends who were now over- 
whelmed with affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts of mer- 
riment seemed for ever banished. 

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, " Lady Beatrice, 
have you wept all this while? " " Yea, and I will weep a while 
longer," said Beatrice. " Surely," said Benedick, " I do believe 
your fair cousin is wronged." " Ah ! " said Beatrice, " how much 
might that man deserve of me who would right her ! " Benedick 
then said, " Is there any way to show such friendship ? I do love 
nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?" " It 
were as possible," said Beatrice, " for me to say I loved nothing in 
the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not. I 
confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin." 
" By my sword," said Benedick, " you love me, and I protest I love 
you. Come, bid me do anything for you." " Kill Claudio," said 
Beatrice. "Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick; for he 
loved his friend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed upon. 
" Is not Claudio a villain, that has slandered, scorned, and dishon- 
oured my cousin ? " said Beatrice : " O that I were a man ! " " Hear 
me, Beatrice ! " said Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in 
Claudio's defence; and she continued to urge on Benedick to re- 
venge her cousin's wrongs: and she said, " Talk with a man out of 
the window; a proper saying! Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she 
is slandered; she is undone. O that I were a man for Claudio's 
sake ! or that I had any friend, who would be a man for my sake ! 
but valour is melted into courtesies and compliments. I cannot be 
a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving." 
" Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick: " by this hand I love you." 
" Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it," said 
Beatrice. " Think you on your soul that Claudio has wronged 
Hero?" asked Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as sure as 
I have a thought or a soul." " Enough," said Benedick: " I am 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 47 

engaged; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave 
you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account! As 
you hear from me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin." 

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and 
working his gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to en- 
gage in the cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend 
Claudio, Leonato was challenging the prince and Claudio to an- 
swer with their swords the injury they had done his child, who, he 
affirmed, had died for grief. But they respected his age and his 
sorrow, and they said, " Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old 
man." And now came Benedick, and he also challenged Claudio 
to answer with his sword the injury he had done to Hero; and 
Claudio and the prince said to each other, " Beatrice has set him on 
to do this." Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this chal- 
lenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment 
brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than the 
uncertain fortune of a duel. 

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge 
of Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the 
prince. Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his com- 
panions of the mischief he had been employed by Don John to do. 

Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hear- 
ing, that it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had 
talked with from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady 
Hero herself; and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and 
the prince of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had re- 
mained it must have been removed by the flight of Don John, who, 
finding his villanies were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the 
just anger of his brother. 

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he found he had 
falsely accused Hero, who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel 
words; and the memory of his beloved Hero's image came over 
him, in the rare semblance that he loved it first; and the prince ask- 
ing him if what he heard did not run like iron through his soul, he 



48 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

answered, that he felt as if he had taken poison while Borachio was 
speaking. 

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man 
Leonato for the injury he had done his child; and promised, that 
whatever penance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in be- 
lieving the false accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear 
sake he would endure it. 

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morn- 
ing a cousin of Hero's, who, he said, was now his heir, and in per- 
son very like Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he 
made to Leonato, said, he would marry this unknown lady, even 
though she were an Ethiop : but his heart was very sorrowful, and' 
he passed that night in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the tomb 
which Leonato had erected for Hero. 

When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the 
church, where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were al- 
ready assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial; and Leonato pre- 
sented to Claudio his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that 
Claudio might not discover her face. And Claudio said to the lady 
in the mask, " Give me your hand, before this holy friar; I am your 
husband, if you will marry me." " And when I lived I was your 
other wife," said this unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she 
proved to be no niece (as was pretended) , but Leonato's very daugh- 
ter, the lady Hero herself. We may be sure that this proved a 
most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who thought her dead, so that 
he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes; and the prince, who was 
equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed, " Is not this Hero, Hero 
that was dead? " Leonato replied, " She died, my lord, but while 
her slander lived." The friar promised them an explanation of this 
seeming miracle, after the ceremony was ended; and was proceeding 
to marry them, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who desired 
to be married at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some 
demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with her love 
for him, which he had learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 49 

took place; and they found they had both been tricked into a belief 
of love, which had never existed, and had become lovers in truth by 
the power of a false jest: but the affection, which a merry inven- 
tion had cheated them into, was grown too powerful to be shaken 
by a serious explanation; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he 
was resolved to think nothing to the purpose that the world could 
say against it; and he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Bea- 
trice, that he took her but for pity, and because he heard she was 
dying of love for him; and Beatrice protested, that she yielded but 
upon great persuasion, and partly to save his life, for she heard he 
was in a consumption. So these two mad wits were reconciled, and 
made a match of it, after Claudio and Hero were married; and to 
complete the history, Don John, the contriver of the villainy, was 
taken in his flight, and brought back to Messina; and a brave pun- 
ishment it was to this gloomy, discontented man, to see the joy and 
feastings which, by the disappointment of his plots, took place in the 
palace in Messina. 



AS YOU LIKE IT 

DURING the time that France was divided into provinces 
(or dukedoms as they were called) there reigned in one 
of these provinces an usurper, who had deposed and ban- 
ished his elder brother, the lawful duke. 

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with 
a few faithful followers to the forest of Arden ; and here the good 
duke lived with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a 
voluntary exile for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched 
the false usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless ease 
they led here more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splen- 
dour of a courtier's life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood 
of England, and to this forest many noble youths daily resorted 
from the court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as they did who 
lived in the golden age. In the summer they lay along under the 
fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of 
the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor dappled fools, 
who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that it grieved 
them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves with venison 
for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke feel 
the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and 
say, " These chilling winds which blow upon my body are true coun- 
sellors; they do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condition; 
and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen as 
that of unkindness and ingratitude. I can find that howsoever men 
speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from 
it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken from the 
head of the venomous and despised toad." In this manner did the 
patient duke draw a useful moral from everything that he saw; and 
by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of his, remote from 

<0 



AS YOU LIKE IT 51 

public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the running 
brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. 

The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom 
the usurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still re- 
tained in his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A 
strict friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagree- 
ment between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striv- 
ing by every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for 
the injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind; 
and whenever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her own 
dependence on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's 
whole care was to comfort and console her. 

One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to 
Rosalind, saying, " I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be 
merry," a messenger entered from the duke, to tell them that if they 
wished to see a wrestling match, which was just going to begin, 
they must come instantly to the court before the palace; and Celia, 
thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it. 

In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country 
clowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and be- 
fore fair ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, 
Celia and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove 
a very tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had been 
long practised in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in 
contests of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very yOung 
man, who, from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the 
beholders all thought would certainly be killed. 

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, " How now, 
daughter and niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You 
will take little delight in it, there is such odds in the men : in pity to 
this young man, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. 
Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him." 

The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and 
first Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from 



52 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

the attempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with 
such feeling consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, 
that instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his 
purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his 
courage in this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia 
and Rosalind in such graceful and modest words, that they felt still 
more concern for him; he concluded his refusal with saying, " I am 
sorry to deny such fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your 
fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be 
conquered there is one shamed that was never gracious; if I am 
killed, there is one dead that is willing to die ; I shall do my friends 
no wrong, for I have none to lament me ; the world no injury, for 
in it I have nothing; for I only fill up a place in the world which 
may be better supplied when I have made it empty." 

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished the young 
stranger might not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The 
friendless state which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, 
made Rosalind think that he was like herself, unfortunate; and she 
pitied him so much, and so deep an interest she took in his danger 
while he was wrestling, that she might almost be said at that mo- 
ment to have fallen in love with him. 

The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble 
ladies gave him courage and strength, so that he performed won- 
ders; and in the end completely conquered his antagonist, who was 
so much hurt, that for a while he was unable to speak or move. 

The duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill 
shown by this young stranger; and desired to know his name and 
parentage, meaning to take him under his protection. 

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the 
youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. 

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some 
years; but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear 
friend of the banished duke: therefore, when Frederick heard 
Orlando was the son of his banished brother's friend, all his liking 



AS YOU LIKE IT 53 

for this brave young man was changed into displeasure, and he left 
the place in very ill humour. Hating to hear the very name of any 
of his brother's friends, and yet still admiring the valour of the 
youth, he said, as he went out, that he wished Orlando had been 
the son of any other man. 

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the 
son of her father's old friend; and she said to Celia, " My father 
loved Sir Rowland de Boys, and if I had known this young man 
was his son, I would have added tears to my entreaties before he 
should have ventured." 

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the 
sudden displeasure shown by the duke, they spoke kind and en- 
couraging words to him; and Rosalind, when they were going 
away, turned back to speak some more civil things to the brave 
young son of her father's old friend; and taking a chain from off 
her neck, she said, " Gentleman, wear this for me. I am out of 
suits with fortune, or I would give you a more valuable present." 

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Or- 
lando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with 
the handsome young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, " Is it pos- 
sible you should fall in love so suddenly? " Rosalind replied, " The 
duke, my father, loved his father dearly." " But," said Celia, 
" does it therefore follow that you should love his son dearly? for 
then I ought to hate him, for my father hated his father; yet I do 
not hate Orlando." 

Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Rowland de Boys' 
son, which reminded him of the many friends the banished duke 
had among the nobility, and having been for some time displeased 
with his niece, because the people praised her for her virtues, and 
pitied her for her good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out 
against her; and while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, 
Frederick entered the room, and with looks full of anger ordered 
Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, and follow her father into 
banishment; telling Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had 



54 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her account. " I did not then," 
said Celia, " entreat you to let her stay, for I was too young at that 
time to value her; but now that I know her worth, and that we so 
long have slept together, rose at the same instant, learned, played, 
and eat together, I cannot live out of her company." Fred- 
erick replied, " She is too subtle for you; her smoothness, her very 
silence, and her patience speak to the people, and they pity her. 
You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem more bright and 
virtuous when she is gone; therefore open not your lips in her fa- 
vour, for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable." 

When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let 
Rosalind remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany 
her; and leaving her father's palace that night, she went along with 
her friend to seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest 
of Arden. 

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for 
two young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; she 
therefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dress- 
ing themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a 
still greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man ; 
and so it was quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind 
was the tallest, she should wear the dress of a young countryman, 
and Celia should be habited like a country lass, and that they should 
say they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said she would be 
called Ganymede, and Celia chose the name of Aliena. 

In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their 
expenses, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for the 
forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the 
duke's dominions. 

The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be called) 
with her manly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The 
faithful friendship Celia had shown in accompanying Rosalind so 
many weary miles, made the new brother, in recompense for this 
true love, exert a cheerful, spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, 



AS YOU LIKE IT 55 

the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, 
Aliena. 

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer 
found the convenient inns and good accommodations they had met 
with on the road; and being in want of food and rest, Ganymede, 
who had so merrily cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and 
happy remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena that he was so 
weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and 
cry like a woman; and Aliena declared she could go no farther; and 
then again Ganymede tried to recollect that it was a man's duty to 
comfort and console a woman, as the weaker vessel; and to seem 
courageous to his new sister, he said, " Come, have a good heart, 
my sister Aliena ; we are now at the end of our travel, in the forest 
of Arden." But feigned manliness and forced courage would no 
longer support them; for though they were in the forest of Arden, 
they knew not where to find the duke: and here the travel of these 
weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might 
have lost themselves, and perished for want of food; but providen- 
tially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying with fatigue 
and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass that way, 
and Ganymede once more tried to speak with a manly boldness, say- 
ing, " Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure us 
entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves ; for 
this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling, and 
faints for want of food." 

The man replied that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and 
that his master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore 
they would find but poor entertainment; but that if they would go 
with him, they should be welcome to what there was. They fol- 
lowed the man, the near prospect of relief giving them fresh 
strength ; and bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and took 
the man who conducted them to the shepherd's house to wait on 
them ; and being by this means so fortunately provided with a neat 
cottage, and well supplied with provisions they agreed to stay here 



56 JTALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

till they could learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt. 

When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they 
began to like their new way of life, and almost fancied themselves 
the shepherd and shepherdess they feigned to be; yet sometimes 
Ganymede remembered he had once been the same lady Rosalind 
who had so dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he was the son 
of old Sir Rowland, her father's friend; and though Ganymede 
thought that Orlando was many miles distant, even so many weary 
miles as they had travelled, yet it soon appeared that Orlando was 
also in the forest of Arden: and in this manner this strange event 
came to pass. 

Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who, when 
he died, left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his 
eldest brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his 
brother a good education, and provide for him as became the dignity 
of their ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother ; and dis- 
regarding the commands of his dying father, he never put his brother 
to school, but kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. But 
in his nature and in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much 
resembled his excellent father, that without any advantages of educa- 
tion he seemed like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care ; 
and Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified manners of his 
untutored brother, that at last he wished to destroy him ; and to ef- 
fect this he set on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous 
wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so many men. 
Now, it was this cruel brother's neglect of him which made Orlando 
say he wished to die, being so friendless. 

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother 
proved victorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he 
swore he would burn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was 
overheard making this vow by one that had been an old and faith- 
ful servant to their father, and that loved Orlando because he re- 
sembled Sir Rowland. This old man went out to meet him when 
he returned from the duke's palace, and when he saw Orlando, the 




NOW THEY WERE IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN — BUT ALMOST DYING 

with fatigue" — Page 55 



AS YOU LIKE IT 57 

peril his dear young master was in made him break out into these 
passionate exclamations : " O my gentle master, my sweet master, 
O vou memory of old Sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why are 
you gentle, strong, and valiant? and why would you be so fond to 
overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly 
home before you." Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked 
him what was the matter. And then the old man told him how 
his wicked brother, envying the love all people bore him, and now 
hearing the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke's palace, 
intended to destroy him, by setting fire to his chamber that night; 
and in conclusion, advised him to escape the danger he was in by 
instant flight; and knowing Orlando had no money, Adam (for that 
was the good old man's name) had brought out with him his own 
little hoard, and he said, " I have five hundred crowns, the thrifty 
hire I saved under your father, and laid by to be provision for me 
when my old limbs should become unfit for service; take that, and 
he that doth the ravens feed be comfort to my age ! Here is the 
gold ; all this I give to you : let me be your servant ; though I look 
old I will do the service of a younger man in all your business and 
necessities." u O good old man!" said Orlando, "how well ap- 
pears in you the constant service of the old world! You are not 
for the fashion of these times. We will go along together, and 
before your youthful wages are spent, I shall light upon some means 
for both our maintenance." 

Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; 
and Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to 
pursue, till they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found 
themselves in the same distress for want of food that Ganymede and 
Aliena had been. They wandered on, seeking some human habita- 
tion, till they were almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at 
last said, " O my dear master, I die for want of food, I can go no 
farther ! " He then laid himself down, thinking to make that place 
his grave, and bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, seeing him 
in this weak state, took his old servant up in his arms, and carried 



58 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

him under the shelter of some pleasant trees; and he said to him, 
" Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here awhile, and do not 
talk of dying! " 

Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened 
to arrive at that part of the forest where the duke was ; and he and 
his friends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being 
seated on the grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of 
some large trees. 

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, in- 
tending to take their meat by force, and said, " Forbear and eat no 
more; I must have your food! " The duke asked him, if distress 
had made him so bold, or if he were a rude despiser of good man- 
ners? On this Orlando said, he was dying with hunger; and then 
the duke told him he was welcome to sit down and eat with them. 
Orlando hearing him speak so gently, put up his sword, and blushed 
with shame at the rude manner in which he had demanded their food. 
"Pardon me, I pray you," said he: "I thought that all things 
had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance of 
stern command ; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, under 
the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours 
of time; if ever you have looked on better days; if ever you have 
been where bells have knolled to church; if you have ever sat at 
any good man's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a 
tear, and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches 
now move you to do me human courtesy ! " The duke replied, 
" True it is that we are men (as you say) who have seen better days, 
and though we have now our habitation in this wild forest, we have 
lived in towns and cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to 
church, have sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have wiped 
the drops which sacred pity has engendered; therefore sit you down, 
and take of our refreshment as much as will minister to your 
wants." " There is an old poor man," answered Orlando, " who 
has limped after me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at 
once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger; till he be satisfied, I 



AS YOU LIKE IT 59 

must not touch a bit." " Go, find him out, and bring him hither," 
said the duke; " we will forbear to eat till you return." Then 
Orlando went like a doe to find its fawn and give it food; and 
presently returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said, 
"Set down your venerable burthen; you are both welcome:" and 
they fed the old man, and cheered his heart, and he revived, and 
recovered his health and strength again. 

The duke inquired who Orlando was ; and when he found that he 
was the son of his old friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him 
under his protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the 
duke in the forest. 

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganymede 
"and Aliena came there, and (as has been before related) bought the 
shepherd's cottage. 

Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name 
of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets, fastened to them, 
all addressed to Rosalind ; and while they were wondering how this 
could be, they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which 
Rosalind had given him about his neck. 

Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair princess Rosa- 
lind, who, by her noble condescension and favour, had so won his 
heart that he passed his whole time in carving her name upon the 
trees, and writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much 
pleased with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he en- 
tered into conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness 
in Ganymede to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the 
dignified deportment of that noble lady ; for Ganymede assumed the 
forward manners often seen in youths when they are between boys 
and men, and with such archness and humour talked to Orlando of 
a certain lover, " who," said he, " haunts our forest, and spoils our 
young trees with carving Rosalind upon their barks; and he hangs 
odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles, all praising this same 
Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would give him some good 
counsel that would soon cure him of his love." 



60 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, 
and asked Ganymede to give him the good counsel he talked of. 
The remedy Ganymede proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was 
that Orlando should come every day to the cottage where he and 
his sister Aliena dwelt: " And then," said Ganymede, " I will feign 
myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in the same 
manner as you would do if I was Rosalind, and then I will imitate 
the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies to their lovers, till I make 
you ashamed of your love; and this is the way I propose to cure 
you." Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to 
come every day to Ganymede's cottage, and feign a playful court- 
ship; and every day Orlando visited Ganymede and Aliena, and 
Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his Rosalind, and every day 
talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments which 
young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It does 
not appear, however, that Ganymede made any progress in curing 
Orlando of his love for Rosalind. 

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not 
dreaming that Ganymede was his very Rosalind) , yet the oppor- 
tunity it gave him of saying all the fond things he had in his heart, 
pleased his fancy almost as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed 
the secret jest in knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed 
to the right person. 

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young 
people; and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganymede 
happy, let him have his own way, and was diverted at the mock- 
courtship, and did not care to remind Ganymede that the lady Rosa- 
lind had not yet made herself known to the duke her father, whose 
place of resort in the forest they had learnt from Orlando. Gany- 
mede met the duke one day, and had some talk with him, and the 
duke asked of what parentage he came. Ganymede answered that 
he came of as good parentage as he did, which made the duke smile, 
for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. 



AS YOU LIKE IT 61 

Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede was content 
to put off all further explanation for a few days longer. 

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw 
a man lying asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had 
twisted itself about his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, 
glided away among the bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then 
he discovered a lioness lie crouching, with her head on the ground, 
with a cat-like watch, waiting until the sleeping man awaked 
(for it is said that lions will prey on nothing that is dead or sleep- 
ing). It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Providence to free the 
man from the danger of the snake and lioness; but when Orlando 
looked in the man's face, he perceived that the sleeper who was 
exposed to this double peril, was his own brother Oliver, who had so 
cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him by fire; and 
he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness; 
but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soon over- 
came his first anger against his brother; and he drew his sword, 
and attacked the lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved his 
brother's life both from the venomous snake and from the furious 
lioness ; but before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn 
one of his arms with her sharp claws. 

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and 
perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, 
was saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own 
life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his 
unworthy conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's 
pardon for the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see 
him so penitent, and readily forgave him: they embraced each other; 
and from that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true brotherly 
affection, though he had come to the forest bent on his destruc- 
tion. 

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found 
himself too weak to go to visit Ganymede, and therefore desired his 



62 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

brother to go and tell Ganymede, " whom," said Orlando, " I in 
sport do call my Rosalind," the accident which had befallen him. 

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and Aliena how 
Orlando had saved his life : and when he had finished the story of 
Orlando's bravery, and his own providential escape, he owned to 
them that he was Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him ; 
and then he told them of their reconciliation. 

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made 
such a lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she in- 
stantly fell in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she 
pitied the distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly 
fell in love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the 
hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganymede, 
who hearing of the danger Orlando had been in, and that he was 
wounded by the lioness, fainted; and when he recovered, he pre- 
tended that he had counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary char- 
acter of Rosalind, and Ganymede said to Oliver, " Tell your brother 
Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by 
the paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and much 
wondering at the weakness of the young man, he said, " Well, if 
you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." 
" So I do," replied Ganymede, truly, " but I should have been a 
woman by right." 

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he re- 
turned back to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for be- 
sides the account of Ganymede's fainting at the hearing that Orlando 
was wounded, Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the 
fair shepherdess Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to 
his suit, even in this their first interview; and he talked to his 
brother, as of a thing almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, 
saying, that he so well loved her, that he would live here as a shep- 
herd, and settle his estate and house at home upon Orlando. 

" You have my consent," said Orlando. " Let your wedding 
be to-morrow, and I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and 



AS YOU LIKE IT 63 

persuade your shepherdess to agree to this : she is now alone ; for 
look, here comes her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; and Gany- 
mede, whom Orlando had perceived approaching, came to inquire 
after the health of his wounded friend. 

When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the sudden 
love which had taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said 
he had advised his brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be 
married on the morrow, and then he added how much he could 
wish to be married on the same day to his Rosalind. 

Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement said that if 
Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he 
should have his wish ; for on the morrow he would engage to make 
Rosalind appear in her own person, and also that Rosalind should 
be willing to marry Orlando. 

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede was the 
lady Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would 
bring to pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an 
uncle who was a famous magician. 

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what 
he heard, asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober meaning. " By 
my life I do," said Ganymede; " therefore put on your best clothes, 
and bid the duke and your friends to your wedding; for if you 
desire to be married to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here." 

The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, 
they came into the presence of the duke, and with them also came 
Orlando. 

They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and 
as yet only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wonder- 
ing and conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganymede was 
making a jest of Orlando. 

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be 
brought in this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the 
shepherd-boy could really do what he had promised; and while 
Orlando was answering that he knew not what to think, Ganymede 



64 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

entered, and asked the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether 
he would consent to her marriage with Orlando. " That I would," 
said the duke, " if I had kingdoms to give with her." Ganymede 
then said to Orlando, " And you say you will marry her if I bring 
her here." " That I would," said Orlando, " if I were king of 
many kingdoms." 

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and Ganymede 
throwing off his male attire, and being once more dressed in woman's 
apparel, quickly became Rosalind without the power of magic; and 
Aliena changing her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with 
as little trouble transformed into the lady Celia. 

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought 
the shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter Rosalind; and 
Orlando said, he also had observed the resemblance. 

They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosa- 
lind and Celia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pre- 
tending that it was by the power of magic that she came here, Rosa- 
lind threw herself on her knees before her father, and begged his 
blessing. It seemed so wonderful to all present that she should 
so suddenly appear, that it might well have passed for magic; but 
Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father, and told him the 
story of her banishment, and of her dwelling in the forest as a 
shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister. 

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the mar- 
riage; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married 
at the same time. And though their wedding could not be cele- 
brated in this wild forest with any of the parade or splendour usual 
on such occasions, yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: 
and while they were eating their venison under the cool shade of 
the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be wanting to complete the 
felicity of this good duke and the true lovers, an unexpected mes- 
senger arrived to tell the duke the joyful news, that his dukedom 
was restored to him. 

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and 



AS YOU LIKE IT 65 

hearing that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of 
Arden to join the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that his 
brother should be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself 
at the head of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, 
intending to seize his brother, and put him with all his faithful 
followers to the sword; but, by a wonderful interposition of Provi- 
dence, this bad brother was converted from his evil intention; for 
just as he entered the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an 
old religious man, a hermit, with whom he had much talk, and who 
in the end completely turned his heart from his wicked design. 
Thenceforward he became a true penitent, and resolved, relinquish- 
ing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder of his days in a 
religious house. The first act of his newly-conceived penitence was 
to send a messenger to his brother (as has been related) to offer to 
restore to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so long, and with 
it the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful followers of 
his adversity. 

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came op- 
portunely to heighten the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of 
the princesses. Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune 
which had happened to the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her 
joy very sincerely, though she herself was no longer heir to the 
dukedom, but by this restoration which her father had made, Rosa- 
lind was now the heir: so completely was the love of these two 
cousins unmixed with anything of jealousy or of envy. 

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true 
friends who had stayed with him in his banishment; and these 
worthy followers, though they had patiently shared his adverse for- 
tune, were very well pleased to return in peace and prosperity to 
the palace of their lawful duke. 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

THERE lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, 
whose names were Valentine and Proteus, between whom 
a firm and uninterrupted friendship had long subsisted. 
They pursued their studies together, and their hours of leisure were 
always passed in each other's company, except when Proteus visited 
a lady he was in love with; and these visits to his mistress, and this 
passion of Proteus for the fair Julia, were the only topics on which 
these two friends disagreed; for Valentine, not being himself a 
lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing his friend for ever 
talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at Proteus, and in 
pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love, and declare that no 
such idle fancies should ever enter his head, greatly preferring (as 
he said) the free and happy life he led, to the anxious hopes and 
fears of the lover Proteus. 

One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him that they must 
for a time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, 
unwilling to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail 
upon Valentine not to leave him: but Valentine said, "Cease to 
persuade me, my loving Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear 
out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping youths have ever 
homely wits. If your affection were not chained to the sweet 
glances of your honoured Julia, I would entreat you to accompany 
me, to see the wonders of the world abroad; but since you are a 
lover, love on still, and may your love be prosperous! " 

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. 
" Sweet Valentine, adieu! " said Proteus; " think on me, when you 
see some rare object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me 
partaker of your happiness." 

Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and 

66 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 67 

when his friend had left him, Proteus sat down to write a letter to 
Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. 

Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of 
a noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity 
too easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his 
passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his 
suit. 

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not re- 
ceive it, and chid her maid for taking letters from Proteus, and 
ordered her to leave the room. But she so much wished to see 
what was written in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again ; 
and when Lucetta returned, she said, "What o'clock is it?" 
Lucetta, who knew her mistress more desired to see the letter than 
to know the time of day, without answering her question, again 
offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus 
take the liberty of seeming to know what she really wanted, tore 
the letter in pieces, and threw it on the floor, ordering her maid 
once more out of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped 
to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, who meant 
not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger, " Go, get you 
gone, and let the papers lie; you would be fingering them to 
anger me." 

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn 
fragments. She first made out these words, " Love-wounded 
Proteus;" and lamenting over these and such like loving words, 
which she made out though they were all torn asunder, or, she 
said wounded (the expression " Love-wounded Proteus " giving 
her that idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them she 
would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their wounds 
were healed, and that she would kiss each several piece, to make 
amends. 

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-like child- 
ishness, till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed 
at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as 



68 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she 
had ever done before. 

Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable an- 
swer to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, " Sweet 
love, sweet lines, sweet life! " In the midst of his raptures he was 
interrupted by his father. " How now! " said the old gentleman; 
" what letter are you reading there? " 

" My lord," replied Proteus, " it is a letter from my friend Valen- 
tine, at Milan." 

" Lend me the letter," said his father: " let me see what news." 

" There are no news, my lord," said Proteus, greatly alarmed, 
" but that he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who 
daily graces him with favours ; and how he wishes me with him, the 
partner of his fortune." 

" And how stand you affected to his wish? " asked the father. 

" As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on 
his friendly wish," said Proteus. 

Now it had happened that Proteus' father had just been talking 
with a friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered 
his lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most 
men were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; " some," 
said he, " to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to dis- 
cover islands far away, and some to study in foreign universities; 
and there is his companion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of 
Milan's court. Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will 
be a great disadvantage to him in his riper age not to have travelled 
in his youth." 

Proteus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good, 
and upon Proteus telling him that Valentine " wished him with him, 
the partner of his fortune," he at once determined to send his son 
to Milan; and without giving Proteus any reason for this sudden 
resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to 
command his son, not reason with him, he said, " My will is the 
same as Valentine's wish;" and seeing his son look astonished, he 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 69 

added, " Look not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall 
spend some time in the duke of Milan's court; for what I will I 
will, and there is an end. To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make 
no excuses; for I am peremptory." 

Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, 
who never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself 
for telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had 
brought upon him the sad necessity of leaving her. 

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus for so long 
a time, she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each 
other a mournful farewell, with many vows of love and constancy. 
Proteus and Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to 
keep for ever in remembrance of each other ; and thus, taking a sor- 
rowful leave, Proteus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of 
his friend Valentine. 

Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to his father, 
in high favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had hap- 
pened to him, of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine 
had given up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and 
was become as passionate a lover as Proteus. 

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine was the 
lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; 
but they concealed their love from the duke, because although he 
showed much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to 
his palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier 
whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had 
none of the fine sense and excellent qualities of Valentine. 

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit 
to Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning every- 
thing Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the 
room, and told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus' 
arrival. Valentine said, " If I had wished a thing, it would have 
been to have seen him here ! " And then he highly praised Proteus 
to the duke, saying, " My lord, though I have been a truant of my 



7 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

time, yet hath my friend made use and fair advantage of his days, 
and is complete in person and in mind, in all good grace to grace a 
gentleman." 

" Welcome him then according to his worth," said the duke. 
" Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need 
not bid him do so." They were here interrupted by the entrance of 
Proteus, and Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, " Sweet 
lady, entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship." 

When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, and were alone 
together, Valentine said, " Now tell me how all does from whence 
you came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?" 
Proteus replied, " My tales of love used to weary you. I know you 
joy not in a love discourse." 

" Ay, Proteus," returned Valentine, " but that life is altered 
now. I have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge 
of my contempt of love, love has chased sleep from my enthralled 
eyes. O gentle Proteus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so 
humbled me, that I confess there is no woe like his correction, nor 
no such joy on earth as in his service. I now like no discourse 
except it be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, 
upon the very name of love." 

This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the 
disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Proteus. 
But " friend " Proteus must be called no longer, for the same all- 
powerful deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea, even while 
they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine), was 
working in the heart of Proteus; and he, who had till this time 
been a pattern of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one 
short interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless 
lover; for at the first sight of Silvia all his love for Julia vanished 
away like a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter 
him from endeavouring to supplant him in her affections; and al- 
though, as it will always be, when people of dispositions naturally 
good become unjust, he had many scruples before he determined to 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 71 

forsake Julia, and become the rival of Valentine; yet he at length 
overcame his sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without 
remorse, to his new unhappy passion. 

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his 
love, and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her 
father, and told him, that, despairing of ever being able to obtain 
his consent, he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace 
that night, and go with him to Mantua; then he showed Proteus 
a ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get 
out of one of the windows of the palace after it was dark. 

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets, 
it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Proteus re- 
solved to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him. 

This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the 
duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal 
what he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke 
had shown him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell 
that which else no worldly good should draw from him. He then 
told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of 
ropes, and the manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them 
under a long cloak. 

The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he 
preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal 
an unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to 
let Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but 
by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For 
this purpose the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the even- 
ing, whom he soon saw hurrying towards the palace, and he per- 
ceived somewhat was wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded 
was the rope-ladder. 

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, " Whither away so fast, 
Valentine? " — " May it please your grace," said Valentine, " there 
is a messenger that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I 
am going to deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's 



72 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

had no better success in the event than the untruth Proteus told his 
father. 

" Be they of much import? " said the duke. 

" No more, my lord," said Valentine, " than to tell my father 
I am well and happy at your grace's court." 

" Nay then," said the duke, " no matter; stay with me a while. 
I wish your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly." 
He then told Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his 
secret from him, saying that Valentine knew he wished to match 
his daughter with Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient 
to his commands, " neither regarding," said he, " that she is my 
child, nor fearing me as if I were her father. And I may say to 
thee, this pride of hers has drawn my love from her. I had thought 
my age should have been cherished by her childlike duty. I now 
am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out to whosoever will take 
her in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for me and my 
possessions she esteems not." 

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer, 
" And what would your grace have me to do in all this? " 

" Why," said the duke, " the lady I would wish to marry is nice 
and coy, and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, 
the fashion of courtship is much changed since I was young: now 
I would willingly have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am 
to woo." 

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then 
practised by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love, 
such as presents, frequent visits, and the like. 

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which 
he sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no 
man might have access to her by day. 

" Why then," said Valentine, " you must visit her by night." 

" But at night," said the artful duke, who was now coming to the 
drift of his discourse, " her doors are fast locked." 

Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the duke should get 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 73 

into the lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, 
saying he would procure him one fitting for that purpose ; and in 
conclusion advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under such 
a cloak as that which he now wore. " Lend me your cloak," said 
the duke, who had feigned this long story on purpose to have a 
pretence to get off the cloak; so upon saying these words, he caught 
hold of Valentine's cloak, and throwing it back, he discovered not 
only the ladder of ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he in- 
stantly opened and read; and this letter contained a full account of 
their intended elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine 
for his ingratitude in thus returning the favour he had shown him, 
by endeavouring to steal away his daughter, banished him from the 
court and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was forced to depart 
that night, without even seeing Silvia. 

While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at 
Verona was regretting the absence of Proteus; and her regard for 
him at last so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved 
to leave Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself 
from danger on the road, she dressed her maiden Lucetta and herself 
in men's clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at 
Milan soon after Valentine was banished from that city through the 
treachery of Proteus. 

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at 
an inn ; and her thoughts being all on her dear Proteus, she entered 
into conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, 
thinking by that means to learn some news of Proteus. 

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentle- 
man (as he took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded 
was of high rank, spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good- 
natured man, he was sorry to see him look so melancholy; and to 
amuse his young guest, he offered to take him to hear some fine 
music, with which, he said, a gentleman that evening was going to 
serenade his mistress. 

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not 



74 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

well know what Proteus would think of the imprudent step she had 
taken; for she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden pride 
and dignity of character, and she feared she should lower herself in 
his esteem : and this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful 
countenance. 

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear 
the music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Proteus by the 
way. 

But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, 
a very different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; 
for there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant 
Proteus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing dis- 
course of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia 
from a window talk with Proteus, and reproach him for forsaking 
his own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; 
and then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music 
and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished 
Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend 
Proteus. 

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet 
did she still love the truant Proteus ; and hearing that he had lately 
parted with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host, 
the friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page; and 
Proteus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and 
presents to her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she 
gave him as a parting gift at Verona. 

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to 
find that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Proteus; and Julia, or 
the page Sebastian as she was called, entered into conversation with 
Silvia about Proteus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She put- 
ting in (as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew 
Julia, as well she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke; 
telling how fondly Julia loved her master Proteus, and how his un- 
kind neglect would grieve her : and then she with a pretty equivoca- 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 75 

tion went on: " Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the 
colour of her eyes and hair the same as mine: " and indeed Julia 
looked a most beautiful youth in her boy's attire. Silvia was moved 
to pity this lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man she 
loved; and when Julia offered the ring which Proteus had sent, re- 
fused it, saying, " The more shame for him that he sends me that 
ring; I will not take it; for I have often heard him say his Julia 
gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for pitying her, poor 
lady! Here is a purse; I give it you for Julia's sake." These com- 
fortable words coming from her kind rival's tongue cheered the 
drooping heart of the disguised lady. 

But to return to the banished Valentine ; who scarce knew which 
way to bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father 
a disgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely 
forest, not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear 
treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded 
his money. 

Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by adversity, that 
he was going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes 
he had on being all his riches. 

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being 
struck with his noble air and manly behaviour, told him if he would 
live with them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put them- 
selves under his command; but that if he refused to accept their 
offer they would kill him. 

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said he would 
consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did 
no outrage on women or poor passengers. 

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we 
read in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti; and in 
this situation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to 
pass. 

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted 
upon her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of fol- 



76 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

lowing Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her 
lover had taken refuge; but in this account she was misinformed, 
for he still lived in the forest among the robbers, bearing the name 
of their captain, but taking no part in their depredations, and using 
the authority which they had imposed upon him in no other way 
than to compel them to show compassion to the travellers they 
robbed. 

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace in 
company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, 
whom she took along with her for protection on the road. She 
had to pass through the forest where Valentine and the banditti 
dwelt; and one of these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also 
have taken Eglamour, but he escaped. 

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, 
bid her not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to 
a cave where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for 
their captain had an honourable mind, and always showed humanity 
to women. Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to 
be carried as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. 
" O Valentine," she cried, " this I endure for thee ! " 

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, 
he was stopped by Proteus, who, still attended by Julia in the dis- 
guise of a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her 
steps to this forest. Proteus now rescued her from the hands of 
the robber; but scarce had she time to thank him for the service 
he had done her, before he began to distress her afresh with his love 
suit; and while he was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, 
and his page (the forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great 
anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great service which Proteus had 
just done to Silvia should win her to show him some favour, they 
were all strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valen- 
tine, who, having heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came 
to console and relieve her. 

Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 77 

caught by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence 
and remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries 
he had done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and 
generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored 
him to his former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of 
heroism he said, " I freely do forgive you ; and all the interest I 
have in Silvia, I give it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside 
her master as a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Proteus 
would not be able with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, 
and they were all employed in recovering her : else would Silvia have 
been offended at being thus made over to Proteus, though she could 
scarcely think that Valentine would long persevere in this over- 
strained and too generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered 
from the fainting fit, she said, " I had forgot, my master ordered me 
to deliver this ring to Silvia." Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw 
that it was the one he gave to Julia, in return for that which he 
received from her, and which he had sent by the supposed page to 
Silvia. " How is this? " said he, " this is Julia's ring: how came 
you by it, boy? " Julia answered, " Julia herself did give it me, and 
Julia herself hath brought it hither." 

Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that 
the page Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself; and the 
proof she had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in 
him, that his love for her returned into his heart, and he took again 
his own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady 
Silvia to Valentine, who had so well deserved her. 

Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their 
reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies when they were 
surprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who came 
there in pursuit of Silvia. 

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying, 
" Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited 
manner, "Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is 
yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but 



78 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

possession of her with a torch ! I dare you but to breathe upon my 
love." Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew 
back, and said he cared not for her, arid that none but a fool would 
fight for a girl who loved him not. 

The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great 
anger, " The more base and degenerate in you to take such means 
for her as you have done, and leave her on such slight conditions." 
Then turning to Valentine, he said, "I do applaud your spirit, Val- 
entine, and think you worthy of an empress' love. You shall have 
Silvia, for you have well deserved her." Valentine then with great 
humility kissed the duke's hand, and accepted the noble present 
which he had made him of his daughter with becoming thankfulness : 
taking occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured 
duke to pardon the thieves with whom he had associated in the 
forest, assuring him, that when reformed and restored to society, 
there would be found among them many good, and fit for great em- 
ployment; for the most of them had been banished, like Valentine, 
for state offences, rather than for any black crimes they had been 
guilty of. To this the ready duke consented: and now nothing 
remained but that Proteus, the false friend, was ordained, by way 
of penance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital 
of the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke ; and 
the shame of the recital to his awakened conscience was judged suf- 
ficient punishment: which being done, the lovers, all four, returned 
back to Milan, and their nuptials were solemnised in the presence of 
the duke, with high triumphs and feasting. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

SHYLOCK, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who 
had amassed an immense fortune by lending money at great 
interest to Christian merchants. Shylock, being a hard- 
hearted man, exacted the payment of the money he lent with such 
severity that he was much disliked by all good men, and particularly 
by Antonio, a young merchant of Venice ; and Shylock as much hated 
Antonio, because he used to lend money to people in distress, and 
would never take any interest for the money he lent; therefore 
there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and the generous 
merchant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto 
(or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and hard 
dealings, which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he 
secretly meditated revenge. 

Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and 
had the most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed, he was 
one in whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any 
that drew breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fel- 
low-citizens; but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart 
was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, 
had nearly exhausted his little fortune by living in too expensive a 
manner for his slender means, as young men of high rank with small 
fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, 
Antonio assisted him; and it seemed as if they had but one heart 
and one purse between them. 

One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that he wished 
to repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he 
dearly loved, whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole 
heiress to a large estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to 
visit at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady had 

79 



8o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to 
say he would be no unwelcome suitor; but not having money to 
furnish himself with an appearance befitting the lover of so rich an 
heiress, he besought Antonio to add to the many favours he had 
shown him, by lending him three thousand ducats. 

Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but 
expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchan- 
dise, he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and 
borrow the money upon the credit of those ships. 

Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Antonio 
asked the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest 
he should require, to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his 
ships at sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself, " If I can 
once catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear 
him; he hates our Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis, and 
among the merchants he rails at me and my well-earned bargains, 
which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him ! " An- 
tonio finding he was musing within himself and did not answer, and 
being impatient for the money, said, " Shylock, do you hear? will you 
lend the money?" To this question the Jew replied, " Signior 
Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often you have railed at 
me about my monies and my usuries, and I have borne it with a 
patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ; and then 
you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my 
Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if I was 
a cur. Well then, it now appears you need my help ; and you come 
to me, and say, Shylock, lend me monies. Has a dog money? Is 
it possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend 
low and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another 
time you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you 
monies." Antonio replied, " I am as like to call you so again, to 
spit on you again, and spurn you too. If you will lend me this 
money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as 
to an enemy, that, if I break, you may with better face exact the 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 81 

penalty." — " Why, look you," said Shylock, "how you storm! I 
would be friends with you, and have your love. I will forget the 
shames you have put upon me. I will supply your wants, and take 
no interest for my money." This seemingly kind offer greatly sur- 
prised Antonio; and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and 
that all he did was to gain Antonio's love, again said he would lend 
him the three thousand ducats, and take no interest for his money; 
only Antonio should go with him to a lawyer, and there sign in 
merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay the money by a certain 
day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part 
of his body that Shylock pleased. 

"Content," said Antonio: "I will sign to this bond, and say 
there is much kindness in the Jew." 

Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond for him; 
but still Antonio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the 
day of payment came, his ships would return laden with many times 
the value of the money. 

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, " O, father Abraham, 
what suspicious people these Christians are ! Their own hard deal- 
ings teach them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell 
me this, Bassanio : if he should break his day, what should I gain by 
the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from 
a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of 
mutton or beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship : if 
he will take it, so; if not, adieu." 

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all 
the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should 
run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio signed 
the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport. 

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, 
at a place called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces 
of her person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, 
of whom we read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus. 

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his friend An- 



82 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

tonio, at the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid 
train, and attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano. 

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short time con- 
sented to accept of him for a husband. 

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his 
high birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she, 
who loved him for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not 
to regard wealth in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, 
that she would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten 
thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of him; and then the 
accomplished Portia prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an 
unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she 
could learn, and that she would commit her gentle spirit to be di- 
rected and governed by him in all things ; and she said, " Myself 
and what is mine, to you and yours is now converted. But yester- 
day, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair mansion, queen of myself, 
and mistress over these servants; and now this house, these servants, 
and myself, are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring; " pre- 
senting a ring to Bassanio. 

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the 
gracious manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a 
man of his humble fortune, that he could not express his joy and 
reverence to the dear lady who so honoured him, by anything but 
broken words of love and thankfulness; and taking the ring, he 
vowed never to part with it. 

Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance 
upon their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to 
become the obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bas- 
sanio and the generous lady joy, desired permission to be married 
at the same time. 

" With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, " if you can get a 
wife." 

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting 
gentlewoman Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 83 

her lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. 
Nerissa replied, " Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia 
willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, " Then our wedding- 
feast shall be much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano." 

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment 
by the entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Antonio 
containing fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's letter, 
Portia feared it was to tell him of the death of some dear friend, 
he looked so pale; and inquiring what was the news which had so 
distressed him, he said, " O sweet Portia, here are a few of the un- 
pleasantest words that ever blotted paper ; gentle lady, when I first 
imparted my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had ran 
in my veins ; but I should have told you that I had less than nothing, 
being in debt." Bassanio then told Portia what has been here re- 
lated, of his borrowing the money of Antonio, and of Antonio's 
procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of the bond by which Antonio 
had engaged to forfeit a pound of flesh, if it was not repaid by a 
certain day: and then Bassanio read Antonio's letter; the words of 
which were, " Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the 
Jew is forfeited, and since in -paying it is impossible I should live, 
I could wish to see you at my death; notwithstanding , use your pleas- 
ure; if your love for me do not persuade you to come, let not my 
letter." " O, my dear love," said Portia, " despatch all business, 
and begone; you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times 
over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio's fault; 
and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly love you." Portia 
then said she would be married to Bassanio before he set out, to 
give him a legal right to her money; and that same day they were 
married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa; and Bassanio 
and Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great haste 
for Venice, where Bassanio found Antonio in prison. 

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept 
of the money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having 
a pound of Antonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shock- 



84 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

ing cause before the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dread- 
ful suspense the event of the trial. 

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to 
him, and bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he 
returned; yet she feared it would go hard with Antonio, and when 
she was left alone, she began to think and consider within herself, 
if she could by any means be instrumental in saving the life of her 
dear Bassanio's friend; and notwithstanding when she wished to 
honour her Bassanio, she had said to him with such a meek and 
wife-like grace, that she would submit in all things to be governed 
by his superior wisdom, yet being now called forth into action by the 
peril of her honoured husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her 
own powers, and by the sole guidance of her own true and perfect 
judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice, and speak in 
Antonio's defence. 

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this 
gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case 
to him, desired his opinion, and that with his advice he should also 
send her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger re- 
turned, he brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, 
and also everything necessary for her equipment. 

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, 
and putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along 
with her as her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at 
Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to 
be heard before the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, 
when Portia entered this high court of justice, and presented a let- 
ter from Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the 
duke, saying, he would have come himself to plead for Antonio, 
but that he was prevented by sickness, and he requested that the 
learned young doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be per- 
mitted to plead in his stead. This the duke granted, much won- 
dering at the youthful appearance of the stranger, who was prettily 
disguised by her counsellor's robes and her large wig. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 85 

And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, 
and she saw the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew 
her not in her disguise. He was standing beside Antonio, in an 
agony of distress and fear for his friend. 

The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave 
this tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she 
had undertaken to perform: and first of all she addressed herself to 
Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to 
have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the 
noble quality of mercy, as would have softened any heart but the 
unfeeling Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from 
heaven upon the place beneath ; and how mercy was a double bless- 
ing, it blessed him that gave, and him that received it; and how it 
became monarchs better than their crowns, being an attribute of God 
himself; and that earthly power came nearest to God's, in propor- 
tion as mercy tempered justice; and she bid Shylock remember that 
as we all pray for mercy, that same prayer should teach us to show 
mercy. Shylock only answered her by desiring to have the penalty 
forfeited in the bond. " Is he not able to pay the money? " asked 
Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment of the three 
thousand ducats as many times over as he should desire; which Shy- 
lock refusing, and still insisting upon having a pound of Antonio's 
flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young 1 counsellor would en- 
deavour to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portia 
gravely answered, that laws once established must never be altered. 
Shylock hearing Portia say that the law might not be altered, it 
seemed to him that she was pleading in his favour, and he said, " A 
Daniel is come to judgment ! O wise young judge, how I do honour 
you ! How much elder are you than your looks! " 

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when 
she had read it, she said, " This bond is forfeited, and by this the 
Jew may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off near- 
est Antonio's heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful: 
take the money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy would 



86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

the cruel Shylock show; and he said, " By my soul I swear, there is 
no power in the tongue of man to alter me." — " Why then, An- 
tonio," said Portia, " you must prepare your bosom for the knife: " 
and while Shylock was sharpening a long knife with great eagerness 
to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, " Have you 
anything to say?" Antonio with a calm resignation replied, that 
he had but little to say, for that he had prepared his mind for death. 
Then he said to Bassanio, " Give me your hand, Bassanio! Fare 
you well ! Grieve not that I am fallen into this misfortune for 
you. Commend me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I 
have loved you ! " Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied, " An- 
tonio, I am married to a wife, who is as dear to me as life itself; 
but life itself, my wife, and all the world, are not esteemed with me 
above your life : I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil 
here, to deliver you." 

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all 
offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so 
true a friend as Antonio in these strong terms, yet could not help 
answering, " Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were 
present, to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who 
loved to copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech 
like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing 
in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I have a wife, whom I 
protest I love; I wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat 
some power there to change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." 
" It is well you wish this behind her back, else you would have but 
an unquiet house," said Nerissa. 

Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; I pray pro- 
nounce the sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the 
court, and every heart was full of grief for Antonio. 

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she 
said to the Jew, " Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he 
bleed to death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that Antonio 
should bleed to death, said, " It is not so named in the bond." 




SHE WOULD HAVE SOFTENED ANY HEART BUT THE UNFEELING 

SHYLOCK's" — Page 85 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 87 

Portia replied, " It is not so named in the bond, but what of that? 
It were good you did so much for charity." To this all the answer 
Shylock would make was, " I cannot find it; it is not in the bond." 
" Then," said Portia, " a pound of Antonio's flesh is thine. The 
law allows it, and the court awards it. And you may cut this flesh 
off his breast. The law allows it and the court awards it." Again 
Shylock exclaimed, " O wise and upright judge ! A Daniel is come 
to judgment ! " And then he sharpened his long knife again, and 
looking eargerly on Antonio, he said, " Come, prepare! " 

" Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia ; " there is something else. 
This bond here gives you no drop of blood ; the words expressly are, 
' a pound of flesh.' If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you 
shed one drop of Christian blood, your lands and goods are by the 
law to be confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was utterly 
impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh without shed- 
ding some of Antonio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia's, that 
it was flesh and not blood that was named in the bond, saved the 
life of Antonio; and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the 
young counsellor, who had so happily thought of this expedient, 
plaudits resounded from every part of the senate-house; and Gra- 
tiano exclaimed, in the words which Shylock had used, " O wise and 
upright judge ! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to judgment ! " 

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with a 
disappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio, re- 
joiced beyond measure at Antonio's unexpected deliverance, cried 
out, "Here is the money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, 
" Softly; there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the pen- 
alty: therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; but mind you 
shed no blood: nor do not cut off more nor less than just a pound; 
be it more or less by one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn by the 
weight of a single hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to 
die, and all your wealth is forfeited to the senate." " Give me my 
money, and let me go," said Shylock. " I have it ready," said 
Bassanio: " here it is." 



88 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped 
him, saying, " Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By 
the laws of Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having 
conspired against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at 
the mercy of the duke ; therefore, down on your knees, and ask him 
to pardon you." 

The duke then said to Shylock, " That you may see the difference 
of our Christian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; 
half your wealth belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the 
state." 

The generous Antonio then said that he would give up his share 
of Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over 
at his death to his daughter and her husband; for Antonio knew that 
the Jew had an only daughter who had lately married against his 
consent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio's, 
which had so offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her. 

The Jew agreed to this : and being thus disappointed in his re- 
venge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, " I am ill. Let me go 
home; send the deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches 
to my daughter." — " Get thee gone, then," said the duke, " and 
sign it ; and if you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state 
will forgive you the fine of the other half of your riches." 

The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the court. He then 
highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, 
and invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to 
Belmont before her husband, replied, " I humbly thank your grace, 
but I must away directly." The duke said he was sorry he had not 
leisure to stay and dine with him; and turning to Antonio, he added, 
" Reward this gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted 
to him." 

The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said 
to Portia, " Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Antonio have 
by your wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I 
beg you will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 89 

" And we shall stand indebted to you over and above," said An- 
tonio, " in love and service evermore." 

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but upon 
Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said, " Give 
me your gloves; I will wear them for your sake; " and then Bas- 
sanio taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given 
him upon his finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to 
get from him to make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, 
that made her ask him for his gloves; and she said, when she saw 
the ring, " and for your love I will take this ring from you." Bas- 
sanio was sadly distressed that the counsellor should ask him for the 
only thing he could not part with, and he replied in great con- 
fusion, that he could not give him that ring, because it was his 
wife's gift, and he had vowed never to part with it; but that he 
would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, and find it out by 
proclamation. On this Portia affected to be affronted, and left the 
court, saying, " You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be an- 
swered." 

" Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, " let him have the ring; let my 
love and the great service he has done for me be valued against 
your wife's displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrate- 
ful, yielded, and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then 
the clerk Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged 
his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity 
by his lord) gave it to her. And there was laughing among these 
ladies to think, when they got home, how they would tax their hus- 
bands with giving away their rings, and swear that they had given 
them as a present to some woman. 

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind 
which never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed 
a good action; her cheerful spirits enjoyed everything she saw: the 
moon never seemed to shine so bright before; and when that pleas- 
ant moon was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from 
her house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she 



9 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

said to Nerissa, " That light we see is burning in my hall; how far 
that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a 
naughty world; " and hearing the sound of music from her house, 
she said, " Methinks that music sounds much sweeter than by day." 

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing 
themselves in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their 
husbands, who soon followed them with Antonio; and Bassanio 
presenting his dear friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and 
welcomings of that lady were hardly over, when they perceived 
Nerissa and her husband quarrelling in a corner of the room. " A 
quarrel already?" said Portia. "What is the matter?" Gra- 
tiano replied, " Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring that Nerissa gave 
me, with the words upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife; Love 
me, and leave me not." 

" What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify? " said 
Nerissa. " You swore to me when I gave it to you, that you would 
keep it till the hour of death ; and now you say you gave it to the 
lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a woman. " j — " By this 
hand," replied Gratiano, " I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a 
little scrubbed boy, no higher than yourself; he was clerk to the 
young counsellor that by his wise pleading saved Antonio's life: 
this prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could not for my life 
deny him." Portia said, " You were to blame, Gratiano, to part 
with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a ring, and I 
am sure he would not part with it for all the world." Gratiano, 
in excuse for his fault, now said, " My lord Bassanio gave his ring 
away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some 
pains in writing, he begged my ring." 

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bas- 
sanio for giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught 
her what to believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. 
Bassanio was very unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and 
he said with great earnestness, " No, by my honour, no woman 
had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand ducats of me, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 91 

and begged the ring, which when I denied him, he went displeased 
away. What could I do, sweet Portia ? I was so beset with shame 
for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced to send the ring after 
him. Pardon me, good lady; had you been there, I think you would 
have begged the ring of me to give the worthy doctor." 

"Ah!" said Antonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these 
quarrels." 

Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at thaf, for that he was welcome 
notwithstanding; and then Antonio said, " I once did lend my body 
for Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave 
the ring, I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my 
soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with 
you." — " Then you shall be his surety," said Portia ; " give him this 
ring, and bid him keep it better than the other." 

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to 
find it was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him how 
she was the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bas- 
sanio found, to his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was 
by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life 
was saved. 

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which 
by some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an ac- 
count of Antonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely ar- 
rived in the harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich 
merchant's story were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune 
which ensued; and there was leisure to laugh at the comical ad- 
venture of the rings, and the husbands that did not know their own 
wives : Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that 

while he lived, he'd fear no other thing 



So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 



CYMBELINE 

DURING the time of Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Rome, 
there reigned in England (which was then called Britain) 
a king whose name was Cymbeline. 

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons 
and a daughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these 
children, was brought up in her father's court; but by a strange 
chance the two sons of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, 
when the eldest was but three years of age, and the youngest quite 
an infant; and Cymbeline could never discover what was become 
of them, or by whom they were conveyed away. 

Cymbeline was twice married : his second wife was a wicked, plot- 
ting woman, and a cruel step-mother to Imogen, Cymbeline's 
daughter by his first wife. 

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a 
son of her own by a former husband (she also having been twice 
married) : for by this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbe- 
line to place the crown of Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; 
for she knew that, if the king's sons were not found, the princess 
Imogen must be the king's heir. But this design was prevented by 
Imogen herself, who married without the consent or even knowledge 
of her father or the queen. 

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was 
the best scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. 
His father died fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after 
his birth his mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband. 

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Post- 
humus (Cymbeline having given him that name, because he was 
born after his father's death), and educated him in his own court. 

92 



CYMBELINE 93 

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, 
and were playfellows from their infancy ; they loved each other ten- 
derly when they were children, and their affection continuing to in- 
crease with their years, when they grew up they privately married. 

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spies 
constantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and she 
immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Post- 
humus. 

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard 
that his daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to 
marry a subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and 
banished him from his native country for ever. 

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she 
suffered at losing her husband, offered to procure them a private 
meeting before Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which 
place he had chosen for his residence in his banishment: this seem- 
ing kindness she showed, the better to succeed in her future designs 
in regard to her son Cloten; for she meant to persuade Imogen, 
when her husband was gone, that her marriage was not lawful, 
being contracted without the consent of the king. 

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave of each 
other. Imogen gave her husband a' diamond ring, which had been 
her mother's, and Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; 
and he fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged 
she would preserve with great care, as a token of his love; they then 
bid each other farewell, with many vows of everlasting love and 
fidelity. 

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's 
court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place he had chosen for 
his banishment. 

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay young men 
of different nations, who were talking freely of ladies : each one 
praising the ladies of his own country, and his own mistress. Post- 
humus, who had ever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that 



94 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

his wife, the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise and constant 
lady in the world. 

One of those gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, being offended 
that a lady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, 
his country-women, provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the 
constancy of his so highly-praised wife; and at length, after much 
altercation, Posthumus consented to a proposal of Iachimo's, that 
he (Iachimo) should go to Britain, and endeavour to gain the love 
of the married Imogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo 
did not succeed in this wicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum 
of money; but if he could win Imogen's favour, and prevail upon 
her to give him the bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly de- 
sired she would keep as a token of his love, then the wager was to 
terminate with Posthumus giving to Iachimo the ring, which was 
Imogen's love present when she parted with her husband. Such 
firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity of Imogen, that he thought 
he ran*no hazard in this trial of her honour. 

Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance, and a 
courteous welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but 
when he began to make professions of love to her, she repulsed him 
with disdain, and he soon found that he could have no hope of suc- 
ceeding in his dishonourable design. 

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have 
recourse to a stratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this 
purpose he bribed some of Imogen's attendants, and was by them 
conveyed into her bedchamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he 
remained shut up till Imogen was retired to rest, and had fallen 
asleep ; and then getting out of the trunk, he examined the chamber 
with great attention, and wrote down everything he saw there, and 
particularly noticed a mole which he observed upon Imogen's neck, 
and then softly unloosing the bracelet from her arm, which Post- 
humus had given to her, he retired into the chest again; and the 
next day he set off for Rome with great expedition, and boasted to 
Posthumus that Imogen had given him the bracelet, and likewise 



CYMBELINE 95 

permitted him to pass a night in her chamber: and in this manner 
lachimo told his false tale: " Her bedchamber," said he, " was hung 
with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was the proud Cleopatra 
when she met her Antony } a piece of work most bravely wrought." 

" This is true," said Posthumus ; " but this you might have heard 
spoken of without seeing." 

" Then the chimney," said lachimo, " is south of the chamber, 
and the chimney-piece is Diana bathing; never saw I figures livelier 
expressed." 

" This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said Posthu- 
mus; " for it is much talked of." 

lachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber; and 
added, " I had almost forgot her andirons; they were two winking 
Cupids made of silver, each on one foot standing." He then took 
out the bracelet, and said, " Know you this jewe^ sir? She gave 
me this. She took it from her arm. I see her yet; her pretty 
action did outsell her gift, and yet enriched it too. She gave it me, 
and said, she prized it once." He last of all described the mole he 
had observed upon her neck. 

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an 
agony of doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations 
against Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to lachimo, 
which he had agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet 
from Imogen. 

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a gentleman 
of Britain, who was one of Imogen's attendants, and had long been 
a faithful friend to Posthumus; and after telling him what proof he 
had of his wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen 
to Milford-Haven, a seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at 
the same time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring her 
to go with Pisanio, for that finding he could live no longer without 
seeing her, though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return 
to Britain, he would come to Milford-Haven, at which place he 
begged she would meet him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who 



96 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

loved her husband above all things, and desired more than her life 
to see him, hastened her departure with Pisanio, and the same night 
she received the letter she set out. 

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, who, though 
faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, 
disclosed to Imogen the cruel order he had received. 

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, 
found herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted 
beyond measure. 

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with patient 
fortitude for the time when Posthumus should see and repent his 
injustice : in the meantime, as she refused in her distress to return 
to her father's court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes 
for more security in travelling; to which advice she agreed, and 
thought in that disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her 
husband, whom, though he had used her so barbarously, she could 
not forget to love. 

When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, he left 
her to her uncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court; but 
before he departed he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the 
queen had given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders. 

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend to Imogen 
and Posthumus, gave him this phial, which she supposed contained 
poison, she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, 
to try its effects (as she said) upon animals; but the physician, know- 
ing her malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poison, 
but gave her a drug which would do no other mischief than causing 
a person to sleep with every appearance of death for a few hours. 
This mixture, which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to 
Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill upon the road to take 
it; and so, with blessings and prayers for her safety and happy de- 
liverance from her undeserved troubles, he left her. 

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of 
her two brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bel- 



CYMBELINE 97 

larius, who stole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, 
and having been falsely accused to the king of treason, and banished 
from the court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbe- 
line, and brought them up in a forest, where he lived concealed in 
a cave. He stole them through revenge, but he soon loved them 
as tenderly as if they had been his own children, educated them 
carefully, and they grew up fine youths, their princely spirits lead- 
ing them to bold and daring actions; and as they subsisted by hunt- 
ing, they were active and hardy, and were always pressing their 
supposed father to let them seek their fortune in the wars. 

At the cave where these youths dwelt it was Imogen's fortune to 
arrive. She had lost her way in a large forest, through which her 
road lay to Milford-Haven (from which she meant to embark for 
Rome) ; and being unable to find any place where she could purchase 
food, she was with weariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not 
merely putting on a man's apparel that will enable a young lady, 
tenderly brought up, to bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely 
forests like a man. Seeing this cave, she entered, hoping to find 
some one within of whom she could procure food. She found the 
cave empty, but looking about she discovered some cold meat, and 
her hunger was so pressing, that she could not wait for an invita- 
tion, but sat down and began to eat. " Ah," said she, talking to 
herself, " I see a man's life is a tedious one; how tired am I! for 
two nights together I have made the ground my bed: my resolu- 
tion helps me, or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me 
Milford-Haven from the mountain top, how near it seemed ! " 
Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate came across 
her, and she said, " My dear Posthumus, thou art a false one ! " 

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their 
reputed father, Bellarius, were by this time returned home. Bel- 
larius had given them the names of Polydore and Cadwal, and they 
knew no better, but supposed that Bellarius was their father; but 
the real names of these princes were Guiderius and Arviragus. 

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, stopped them, 



98 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

saying, " Come not in yet; it eats our victuals, or I should think it 
was a fairy." 

" What is the matter, sir? " said the young men. " By Jupiter," 
said Bellarius again, " there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an 
earthly paragon." So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's ap- 
parel. 

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, and 
addressed them in these words: " Good masters, do not harm me; 
before I entered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought 
what I have eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, 
though I had found gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for 
my meat, which I would have left on the board when I had made 
my meal, and parted with prayers for the provider." They re- 
fused her money with great earnestness. " I see you are angry with 
me," said the timid Imogen; " but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, 
know that I should have died if I had not made it." 

" Whither are you bound? " asked Bellarius, " and what is your 
name? " 

" Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. " I have a kinsman, 
who is bound for Italy; he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom 
being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fallen into this 
offence." 

" Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, " do not think us churls, 
nor measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You 
are well encountered; it is almost night. You shall have better 
cheer before you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid 
him welcome." 

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their 
cave with many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, 
as they said, him) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where 
(they having killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen de- 
lighted them with her neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing 
their supper; for though it is not the custom now for young women of 
high birth to understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled 



CYMBELINE 99 

in this useful art; and, as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele 
cut their roots in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had 
been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. " And then," said Poly- 
dore to his brother, " how angel-like he sings! " 

They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele smiled so 
sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if 
grief and patience had together taken possession of him. 

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their near rela- 
tionship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called 
her, Fidele) became the doting-piece of her brothers, and she 
scarcely less loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her 
dear Posthumus, she could live and die in the cave with these wild 
forest youths; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till she 
was enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way 
to Milford-Haven. 

When the venison they had taken was all eaten and they were 
going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not accompany them be- 
cause she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel 
usage, as well as the fatigue of wandering }n the forest, was the 
cause of her illness. 

They then bid her farewell, and went to their hunt, praising all 
the way the noble parts and graceful demeanour of the youth Fidele. 

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected the cordial 
Pisanio had given her, and drank it off, and presently fell into a 
sound and deathlike sleep. 

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunting, Poly- 
dore went first into the cave, and supposing her asleep, pulled off 
his heavy shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake her; so 
did true gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely foresters; 
but he soon discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, 
and concluded her to be dead, and Polydore lamented over her with 
dear and brotherly regret, as if they had never from their infancy 
been parted. 

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest, and there 



ioo TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn dirges, as was then the 
custom. 

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady covert, and 
there laying her gently on the grass, they sang repose to her de- 
parted spirit, and covering her over with leaves and flowers, Poly- 
dore said, " While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily 
strew thy grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy 
face; the blue-bell, like thy clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine, 
which is not sweeter than was thy breath ; all these will I strew over 
thee. Yea, and the furred moss in winter, when there are no 
flowers to cover thy sweet corse." 

When they had finished her funeral obsequies they departed very 
sorrowful. 

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect of the sleepy 
drug going off, she awaked, and easily shaking off the slight covering 
of leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose, and 
imagining she had been dreaming, she said, " I thought I was a 
cave-keeper, and cook to honest creatures; how came I here covered 
with flowers? " Not being able to find her way back to the cave, 
and seeing nothing of her new companions, she concluded it was 
certainly all a dream; and once more Imogen set out on her weary 
pilgrimage, hoping at last she should find her way to Milford- 
Haven, and thence get a passage in some ship bound for Italy; for 
all her thoughts were still with her husband Posthumus, whom she 
intended to seek in the disguise of a page. 

But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen 
knew nothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Ro- 
man emperor Augustus Csesar and Cymbeline, the king of Britain; 
and a Roman army had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced 
into the very forest over which Imogen was journeying. With this 
army came Posthumus. 

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Roman army, 
he did not mean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, 



CYMBELINE 101 

but intended to join the army of Britain, and fight in the cause of 
his king who had banished him. 

He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death of her he 
had so fondly loved, and by his own orders too (Pisanio having 
written him a letter to say he had obeyed his command, and that 
Imogen was dead), sat heavy on his heart, and therefore he re- 
turned to Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or to be put 
to death by Cymbeline for returning home from banishment. 

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into the hands 
of the Roman army; and her presence and deportment recommend- 
ing her, she was made a page to Lucius, the Roman general. 

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when 
they entered this forest, Polydore and Cadwal joined the king's 
army. The young men were eager to engage in acts of valour, 
though they little thought they were going to fight for their own 
royal father : and old Bellarius went with them to the battle. He had 
long since repented of the injury he had done to Cymbeline in car- 
rying away his sons; and having been a warrior in his youth, he 
gladly joined the army to fight for the king he had so injured. 

And now a great battle commenced between the two armies, and 
the Britons would have been defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, 
but for the extraordinary valour of Posthumus and Bellarius and 
the two sons of Cymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved his 
life, and so entirely turned the fortune of the day, that the Britons 
gained the victory. 

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not found the 
death he sought for, surrendered himself up to one of the officers 
of Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which was to be his pun- 
ishment if he returned from banishment. 

Imogen and the master she served were taken prisoners, and 
brought before Cymbeline, as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who 
was an officer in the Roman army; and when these prisoners were 
before the king, Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence 



102 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

of death; and at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius with Poly- 
dore and Cadwal were also brought before Cymbeline, to receive 
the rewards due to the great services they had by their valour done 
for the king. Pisanio, being one of the king's attendants, was like- 
wise present. 

Therefore there were now standing in the king's presence (but 
with very different hopes and fears) Posthumus and Imogen, with 
her new master, the Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and 
the false friend Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbe- 
line, with Bellarius, who had stolen them away. 

The Roman general was the first who spoke ; the rest stood silent 
before the king, though there was many a beating heart among 
them. 

Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he was in the 
disguise of a peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire: 
and she knew Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she 
perceived to be her own, but she did not know him as yet to have 
been the author of all her troubles: and she stood before her own 
father a prisoner of war. 

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the 
garb of a boy. "It is my mistress," thought he; "since she is 
living, let the time run on to good or bad." Bellarius knew her 
too, and softly said to Cadwal, " Is not this boy revived from 
death? " — " One sand," replied Cadwal, " does not more resemble 
another than that sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele." — " The 
same dead thing alive," said Polydore. " Peace, peace," said Bel- 
larius; " if it were he, I am sure he would have spoken to us." — 
" But we saw him dead," again whispered Polydore. " Be silent," 
replied Bellarius. 

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his 
own death; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had 
saved his life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to 
pardon him. 

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen under his 



CYMBELINE 103 

protection as his page, was the first (as has been before said) who 
spoke to the king. He was a man of high courage and noble dig- 
nity, and this was his speech to the king: — 

" I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them 
all to death : I am a Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer 
death. But there is one thing for which I would entreat." Then 
bringing Imogen before the king, he said, " This boy is a Briton 
born. Let him be ransomed. He is my page. Never master had 
a page so kind, so duteous, so diligent on all occasions, so true, so 
nurse-like. He hath done no Briton wrong, though he hath served 
a Roman. Save him, if you spare no one beside." 

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew 
her not in that disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature 
spake in his heart, for he said, " I have surely seen him, his face 
appears familiar to me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, 
boy; but I give you your life, and ask of me what boon you will, 
and I will grant it you. Yea, even though it be the life of the 
noblest prisoner I have." 

" I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen. 

What was then called granting a boon was the same as a promise 
to give any one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on 
whom that favour was conferred chose to ask for. They all were 
attentive to hear what thing the page would ask for; and Lucius 
her master said to her, " I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know 
that is what you will ask for." — " No, no, alas! " said Imogen, " I 
have other work in hand, good master ; your life I cannot ask for." 

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman 
general. 

Imogen then, fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no other boon 
than this: that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had 
the ring he wore on his finger. 

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Iachimo with 
the torture if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring 
on his finger. 



io 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villany, tell- 
ing, as has been before related, the whole story of his wager with 
Posthumus, and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his 
credulity. 

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the innocence of 
his lady cannot be expressed. He instantly came forward, and con- 
fessed to Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined 
Pisanio to execute upon the princess ; exclaiming wildly, " O Imogen, 
my queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! " 

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress with- 
out discovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who 
was thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to 
the good graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated. 

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy, at find- 
ing his lost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to her 
former place in his fatherly affection, and not only gave her hus- 
band Posthumus his life, but consented to acknowledge him for his 
son-in-law. 

Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation to make his 
confession. He presented Polydore and Cadwal to the king, tell- 
ing him they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus. 

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius ; for who could think of pun- 
ishments at a season of such universal happiness? To find his 
daughter living, and his lost sons in the persons of his young de- 
liverers, that he had seen so bravely fight in his defence, was un- 
looked-for joy indeed! 

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late 
master, the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king her father 
readily granted at her request; and by the mediation of the 
same Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans and the 
Britons, which was kept inviolate many years. 

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despair of bringing her 
projects to pass, and touched with remorse of conscience, sickened 
and died, having first lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a 



CYMBELINE 105 

quarrel which he had provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt 
this happy conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is 
sufficient that all were made happy who were deserving; and even 
the treacherous Iachimo, in consideration of his villany having missed 
its final aim, was dismissed without punishment. 



KING LEAR 

LEAR, king of Britain, had three daughters; Goneril, wife 
to the duke of Albany; Regan, wife to the duke of Corn- 
wall ; and Cordelia, a young maid, for whose love the king 
of France and duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and were at 
this time making stay for that purpose in the court of Lear. 

The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of govern- 
ment, he being more than fourscore years old, determined to take 
no further part in state affairs, but to leave the management to 
younger strengths, that he might have time to prepare of death, 
which must at no long period ensue. With this intent he called his 
three daughters to him, to know from their own lips which of them 
loved him best, that he might part his kingdom among them in such 
proportions as their affection for him should seem to deserve. 

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than 
words could give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of 
her own eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such pro- 
fessing stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, 
only a few fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that 
case. The king, delighted to hear from her own mouth this assur- 
ance of her love, and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in 
a fit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her husband one 
third of his ample kingdom. 

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what she 
had to say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as 
her sister, was not a whit behind in her professions, but rather de- 
clared that what her sister had spoken came short of the love which 
she professed to bear for his highness; insomuch that she found all 
other joys dead, in comparison with the pleasure which she took in 
the love of her dear king and father. 

1 06 



KING LEAR 



107 



Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, as he thought; 
and could do no less, after the handsome assurances which Regan 
had made, than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her 
husband, equal in size to that which he had already given away to 
Goneril. 

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called 
his joy, he asked what she had to say, thinking no doubt that she 
would glad his ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters 
had uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so much 
stronger than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and fa- 
voured by him above either of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with 
the flattery of her sisters, whose hearts she knew were far from 
their lips, and seeing that all their coaxing speeches were only in- 
tended to wheedle the old king out of his dominions, that they and 
their husbands might reign in his lifetime, made no other reply but 
this, — that she loved his majesty according to her duty, neither more 
nor less. 

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his 
favourite child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her 
speech, lest it should mar her fortunes. 

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that he had 
given her breeding, and loved her; that she returned those duties back 
as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him. 
But that she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as 
her sisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. 
Why had her sisters husbands, if (as they said) they had no love 
for anything but their father? If she should ever wed, she was 
sure the lord to whom she gave her hand would want half her love, 
half of her care and duty; she should never marry like her sisters, 
to love her father all. 

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even almost as 
extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly 
told him so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving 
terms, and without these qualifications, which did indeed sound a 



108 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

little ungracious; but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sis- 
ters, which she had seen drawn such extravagant rewards, she 
thought the handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. 
This put her affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and 
showed that she loved, but not for gain; and that her professions, 
the less ostentatious they were, had so much the more of truth and 
sincerity than her sisters'. 

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged the 
old monarch — who in his best of times always showed much of 
spleen and rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age 
had so clouded over his reason, that he could not discern truth 
from flattery, nor a gay painted speech from words that came from 
the heart — that in a fury of resentment he retracted the third part 
of his kingdom which yet remained, and which he had reserved for 
Cordelia, and gave it away from her, sharing it equally between 
her two sisters and their husbands, the dukes of Albany and Corn- 
wall; whom he now called to him, and in presence of all his 
courtiers bestowing a coronet between them, invested them jointly 
with all the power, revenue, and execution of government, only re- 
taining to himself the name of king; all the rest of royalty he re- 
signed; with this reservation, that himself, with a hundred knights 
for his attendants, was to be maintained by monthly course in each 
of his daughters' palaces in turn. 

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by 
reason, and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with astonish- 
ment and sorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose 
between this incensed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, 
who was beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the 
passionate Lear on pain of death commanded him to desist; but 
the good Kent was not so to be repelled. He had been ever loyal 
to Lear, whom he had honoured as a king, loved as a father, fol- 
lowed as a master; and he had never esteemed his life further than 
as a pawn to wage against his royal master's enemies, nor feared to 
lose it when Lear's safety was the motive; nor now that Lear was 



KING LEAR 109 

most his own enemy, did this faithful servant of the king forget 
his old principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do Lear good; 
and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He had been 
a most faithful counsellor in times past to the king, and he besought 
him now, that he would see with his eyes (as he had done in many 
weighty matters), and go by his advice still; and in his best con- 
sideration recall this hideous rashness : for he would answer with 
his life, his judgment that Lear's youngest daughter did not love 
him least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no 
token of hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour was 
bound to plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to him, 
whose life was already at his service ? That should not hinder duty 
from speaking. 

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only stirred up 
the king's wrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his 
physician, and loves his mortal disease, he banished this true serv- 
ant, and allotted him but five days to make his preparations for 
departure; but if on the sixth his hated person was found within 
the realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And Kent 
bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he chose to show him- 
self in such fashion, it was but banishment to stay there ; and before 
he went, he recommended Cordelia to the protection of the gods, 
the maid who had so rightly thought, and so discreetly spoken; and 
only wished that her sisters' large speeches might be answered with 
deeds of love ; and then he went, as he said, to shape his old course 
to a new country. 

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in 
to hear the determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and 
to know whether they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, 
now that she was under her father's displeasure, and had no for- 
tune but her own person to recommend her: and the duke of Bur- 
gundy declined the match, and would not take her to wife upon 
such conditions; but the king of France, understanding what the 
nature of the fault had been which had lost her the love of her 



no TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

father, that it was only a tardiness of speech, and the not being 
able to frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this young 
maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry above 
a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her sisters and of her 
father, though he had been unkind, and she should go with him, 
and be queen of him and of fair France, and reign over fairer pos- 
sessions than her sisters : and he called the duke of Burgundy in 
contempt a waterish duke, because his love for this young maid had 
in a moment run all away like water. 

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters, and 
besought them to love their father well, and make good their pro- 
fessions : and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for 
they knew their duty; but to strive to content her husband, who 
had taken her (as they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. 
And Cordelia with a heavy heart departed, for she knew the cun- 
ning of her sisters, and she wished her father in better hands than 
she was about to leave him in. 

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of 
her sisters began to show themselves in their true colours. Even 
before the expiration of the first month, which Lear was to spend 
by agreement with his eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began 
to find out the difference between promises and performances. 
This wretch having got from her father all that he had to be- 
stow, even to the giving away of the crown from off his head, be- 
gan to grudge even those small remnants of royalty which the old 
man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy with the idea of 
being still a king. She could not bear to see him and his hundred 
knights. Every time she met her father, she put on a frowning 
countenance; and when the old man wanted to speak with her, she 
would feign sickness, or anything to get rid of the sight of him ; 
for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and 
his attendants an unnecessary expense: not only she herself slack- 
ened in her expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and 
(it is to be feared) not without her private instructions, her very 



KING LEAR in 

servants affected to treat him with neglect, and would either refuse 
to obey his orders, or still more contemptuously pretend not to 
hear them. Lear could not but perceive this alteration in the be- 
haviour of his daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as 
he could, as people commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant 
consequences which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought 
upon them. 

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by ill, than 
falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated by good, 
usage. This eminently appears in the instance of the good earl of 
Kent, who, though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if 
he were found in Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, 
as long as there was a chance of his being useful to the king his 
master. See to what mean shifts and disguises poor loyalty is 
forced to submit sometimes ; yet it counts nothing base or unworthy, 
so as it can but do service where it owes an obligation ! In the 
disguise of a serving man, all his greatness and pomp laid aside, 
this good earl proffered his services to the king, who, not knowing 
him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a certain plain- 
ness, or rather bluntness in his answers, which the earl put on (so 
different from that smooth oily flattery which he had so much rea- 
son to be sick of, having found the effects not answerable in his 
daughter) , a bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into 
his service by the name of Caius, as he called himself, never suspect- 
ing him to be his once great favourite, the high and mighty earl of 
Kent. 

This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity and love to 
his royal master: for Goneril's steward that same day behaving in 
a disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and 
language, as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his 
mistress, Caius, not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon 
his majesty, made no more ado but presently tripped up his heels, 
and laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel; for which friendly 
service Lear became more and more attached to him. 



ii2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as 
far as so insignificant a personage could show his love, the poor 
fool, or jester, that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, 
as it was the custom of kings and great personages at that time to 
keep a fool (as he was called) to make them sport after serious 
business : this poor fool clung to Lear after he had given away his 
crown, and by his witty sayings would keep up his good humour, 
though he could not refrain sometimes from jeering at his master 
for his imprudence in uncrowning himself, and giving all away to 
his daughters; at which time, as he rhymingly expressed it, these 
daughters 

For sudden joy did weep 
And he for sorrow sung, 

That such a king should play bo-peep 
And go the fools among. 

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of which he had 
plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart even in the 
presence of Goneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which 
cut to the quick: such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, 
who feeds the young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and 
then has its head bit off for its pains; and saying, that an ass may 
know when the cart draws the horse (meaning that Lear's daugh- 
ters, that ought to go behind, now ranked before their father) ; 
and that Lear was no longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear: for 
which free speeches he was once or twice threatened to be whipped. 

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun to 
perceive, were not all which this foolish fond father was to suffer 
from his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his 
staying in her palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon 
keeping up an establishment of a hundred knights; that this estab- 
lishment was useless and expensive, and only served to fill her 
court with riot and feasting; and she prayed him that he would 
lessen their number, and keep none but old men about him, such as 
himself, and fitting his age. 



KING LEAR 113 

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that it was his 
daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she 
who had received a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, 
and grudge him the respect due to his old age. But she, persisting 
in her undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so excited, that 
he called her a detested kite, and said that she spoke an untruth; 
and so indeed she did, for the hundred knights were all men of 
choice behaviour and sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars 
of duty, and not given to rioting or feasting, as she said. And he 
bid his horses to be prepared, for he would go to his other daughter, 
Regan, he and his hundred knights; and he spoke of ingratitude, 
and said it was a marble-hearted devil, and showed more hideous 
in a child than the sea-monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter 
Goneril so as was terrible to hear; praying that she might never 
have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return that scorn 
and contempt upon her which she had shown to him : that she might 
feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it was to have a thankless 
child. And Goneril's husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to 
excuse himself for any share which Lear might suppose he had in 
the unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a rage ordered 
his horses to be saddled, and set out with his followers for the abode 
of Regan, his other daughter. And Lear thought to himself how 
small the. fault of Cordelia (if it was a fault) now appeared, in 
comparison with her sister's, and he wept; and then he was ashamed 
that such a creature as Goneril should have so much power over his 
manhood as to make him weep. 

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp 
and state at their palace; and Lear despatched his servant Caius 
with letters to his daughter, that she might be prepared for his re- 
ception, while he and his train followed after. But it seems that 
Goneril had been beforehand with him, sending letters also to 
Regan, accusing her father of waywardness and ill humours, and 
advising her not to receive so great a train as he was bringing with 
him. This messenger arrived at the same time with Caius, and 



1 1 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Caius and he met: and who should it be but Caius's old enemy the 
steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by the heels for his 
saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the fellow's look, and 
suspecting what he came for, began to revile him, and challenged 
him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest 
passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and carrier of 
wicked messages deserved; which coming to the ears of Regan and 
her husband, they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though he 
was a messenger from the king her father, and in that character de- 
manded the highest respect: so that the first thing the king saw 
when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius sitting in 
that disgraceful situation. 

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to ex- 
pect ; but a worse followed, when, upon inquiry for his daughter and 
her husband, he was told they were weary with travelling all night, 
and could not see him ; and when lastly, upon his insisting in a posi- 
tive and angry manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom 
should he see in their company but the hated Goneril, who had 
come to tell her own story, and set her sister against the king her 
father ! 

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see Regan 
take her by the hand; and he asked Goneril if she was not ashamed 
to look upon his old white beard. And Regan advised him to go 
home again with Goneril, and live with her peaceably, dismissing 
half of his attendants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old 
and wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that 
had more discretion than himself. And Lear showed how pre- 
posterous that would sound, if he were to go down on his knees, 
and beg of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he argued 
against such an unnatural dependence, declaring his resolution never 
to return with her, but to stay where he was with Regan, he and his 
hundred knights; for he said that she had not forgot the half of 
the kingdom which he had endowed her with, and that her eyes 
were not fierce like Goneril's, but mild and kind. And he said 



KING LEAR 115 

that rather than return to Goneril, with half his train cut off, he 
would go over to France, and beg a wretched pension of the king 
there, who had married his youngest daughter without a portion. 

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Regan than 
he had experienced from her sister Goneril. As if willing to outdo 
her sister in unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty 
knights too many to wait upon him : that five-and-twenty were 
enough. Then Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Goneril and 
said that he would go back with her, for her fifty doubled five- 
and-twenty, and so her love was twice as much as Regan's. But 
Goneril excused herself, and said, what need of so many as five-and- 
twenty? or even ten? or five? when he might be waited upon by 
her servants, or her sister's servants? So these two wicked daugh- 
ters, as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their old 
father, who had been so good to them, by little and little would 
have abated him of all his train, all respect (little enough for him 
that once commanded a kingdom), which was left him to show 
that he had once been a king ! Not that a splendid train is essential 
to happiness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, from 
commanding millions to be without one attendant; and it was the 
ingratitude in his daughters' denying it, more than what he would 
suffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king to the heart; 
insomuch, that with this double ill-usage, and vexation for having 
so foolishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, 
and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge against those 
unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should be a 
terror to the earth ! 

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could 
never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and 
lightning with rain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolu- 
tion not to admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose 
rather to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay 
under the same roof with these ungrateful daughters : and they, say- 
ing that the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves are 



n6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

their just punishment, suffered him to go in that condition and shut 
their doors upon him. 

The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the 
old man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than 
his daughters' unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce 
a bush; and there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm 
in a dark night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds and 
the thunder; and he bid the winds to blow the earth into the sea, 
or swell the waves of the sea till they drowned the earth, that no 
token might remain of any such ungrateful animal as man. The 
old king was now left with no other companion than the poor fool, 
who still abided with him, with his merry conceits striving to outjest 
misfortune, saying it was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly 
the king had better go in and ask his daughter's blessing : — 

But he that has a little tiny wit, 

With heigh ho, the wind and the rain ! 

Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
Though the rain it raineth every day: 

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride. 

Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch was found 
by his ever-faithful servant the good earl of Kent, now transformed 
to Caius, who ever followed close at his side, though the king did 
not know him to be the earl; and he said, " Alas ! sir, are you here? 
creatures that love night, love not such nights as these. This dread- 
ful storm has driven the beasts to their hiding places. Man's 
nature cannot endure the affliction or the fear." And Lear rebuked 
him and said, these lesser evils were not felt, where a greater malady 
was fixed. When the mind is at ease, the body has leisure to be 
delicate, but the tempest in his mind did take all feeling else from 
his senses, but of that which beat at his heart. And he spoke of 
filial ingratitude, and said it was all one as if the mouth should tear 
the hand for lifting food to it; for parents were hands and food 
and everything to children. 



KING LEAR 117 

But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that the king 
would not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to enter a 
little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool 
first entering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen 
a spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing 
more than a poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted 
hovel for shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted the fool, 
one of those poor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be so, 
the better to extort charity from the compassionate country people, 
who go about the country, calling themselves poor Tom and poor 
Turlygood, saying, "Who gives anything to poor Tom?" sticking 
pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary into their arms to make them 
bleed ; and with such horrible actions, partly by prayers, and partly 
with lunatic curses, they move or terrify the ignorant country-folks 
into giving them alms. This poor fellow was such a one; and the 
king seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing but a blanket 
about his loins to cover his nakedness, could not be persuaded but 
that the fellow was some father who had given all away to his 
daughters, and brought himself to that pass: for nothing he thought 
could bring a man to such wretchedness but the having unkind 
daughters. 

And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, 
the good Caius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect 
mind, but that his daughters' ill usage had really made him go 
mad. And now the loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent showed 
itself in more essential services than he had hitherto found oppor- 
tunity to perform. For with the assistance of some of the king's 
attendants who remained loyal, he had the person of his royal 
master removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover, where his own 
friends and influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay; and himself em- 
barking for France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and did 
there in such moving terms represent the pitiful condition of her 
royal father, and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of 
her sisters, that this good and loving child with many tears be- 



n8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

sought the king her husband that he would give her leave to em- 
bark for England, with a sufficient power to subdue these cruel 
daughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father 
to his throne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal 
army landed at Dover. 

Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which 
the good earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his 
lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about 
the fields near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and 
singing aloud to himself, with a crown upon his head which he had 
made of straw, and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had 
picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, 
Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was pre- 
vailed upon to put off the meeting, till by sleep and the operation 
of herbs which they gave him, he should be restored to greater 
composure. By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whom Cor- 
delia promised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old 
king, Lear was soon in a condition to see his daughter. 

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father and 
daughter; to see the struggles between the joy of this poor old 
king at beholding again his once darling child, and the shame at 
receiving such filial kindness from her whom he had cast off for 
so small a fault in his displeasure; both these passions struggling 
with the remains of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain 
sometimes made him that he scarce remembered where he was, or 
who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke to him : and then 
he would beg the standers-by not to laugh at him, if he were mis- 
taken in thinking this lady to be his daughter Cordelia ! And then 
to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon of his child; and she, 
good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of him, and tell- 
ing him that it did not become him to kneel, but it was her duty, 
for she was his child, his true and very child Cordelia ! and she 
kissed him (as she said) to kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, 
and said that they might be ashamed of themselves, to turn their 



KING LEAR 119 

old kind father with his white beard out into the cold air, when her 
enemy's dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily expressed it), 
should have stayed by her fire such a night as that, and warmed 
himself. And she told her father how she had come from France 
with purpose to bring him assistance ; and he said that she must for- 
get and forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not know what 
he did; but that to be sure she had great cause not to love him, 
but her sisters had none. And Cordelia said that she had no cause, 
no more than they had. 

So we will leave this old king in the protection of his dutiful and 
loving child, where, by the help of sleep and medicine, she and her 
physicians at length succeeded in winding up the untuned and jarring 
senses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so violently 
shaken. Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel 
daughters. 

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their 
old father, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their 
own husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appear- 
ance of duty and affection, and in an open way showed they had 
fixed their loves upon another. It happened that the object of 
their guilty loves was the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of 
the late earl of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had succeeded in 
disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from his earldom, 
and by his wicked practices was now earl himself; a wicked man, 
and a fit object for the love of such wicked creatures as Goneril 
and Regan. It falling out about this time that the duke of Corn- 
wall, Regan's husband, died, Regan immediately declared her in- 
tention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the jealousy 
of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan this wicked earl had at 
sundry times professed love, Goneril found means to make away 
with her sister by poison; but being detected in her practices, and 
imprisoned by her husband, the duke of Albany, for this deed, and 
for her guilty passion for the earl which had come to his ears, she, 
in a fit of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an end to her 



120 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last overtook these wicked 
daughters. 

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the 
justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were sud- 
denly taken off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of 
the same power in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous 
daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve 
a more fortunate conclusion : but it is an awful truth, that innocence 
and piety are not always successful in this world. The forces 
which Goneril and Regan had sent out under the command of the 
bad earl of Gloucester were victorious, and Cordelia, by the prac- 
tices of this wicked earl, who did not like that any should stand be- 
tween him and the throne, ended her life in prison. Thus, Heaven 
took this innocent lady to itself in her young years, after showing 
her to the world an illustrious example of filial duty. Lear did not 
long survive this kind child. 

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still attended 
his old master's steps from the first of his daughters' ill usage to 
this sad period of his decay, tried to make him understand that it 
was he who had followed him under the name of Caius; but Lear's 
care-crazed brain at that time could not comprehend how that could 
be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same person : so Kent 
thought it needless to trouble him with explanations at such a time ; 
and Lear soon after expiring, this faithful servant to the king, be- 
tween age and grief for his old master's vexations, soon followed 
him to the grave. 

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of Glou- 
cester, whose treasons were discovered, and himself slain in single 
combat with his brother, the lawful earl; and how Goneril's hus- 
band, the duke of Albany, who was innocent of the death of Cor- 
delia, and had never encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings 
against her father, ascended the throne of Britain after the death of 
Lear, is needless here to narrate : Lear and his Three Daughters 
being dead, whose adventures alone concern our story. 



MACBETH 

WHEN Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland, there 
lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This 
Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in great 
esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the wars; an example 
of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel army assisted by 
the troops of Norway in terrible numbers. 

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, returning vic- 
torious from this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, 
where they were stopped by the strange appearance of three figures 
like women, except that they had beards, and their withered skins 
and wild attire made them look not like any earthly creatures. Mac- 
beth first addressed them, when they, seemingly offended, laid each 
one her choppy finger upon her skinny lips, in token of silence ; and 
the first of them saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. 
The general was not a little startled to find himself known by such 
creatures ; but how much more, when the second of them followed 
up that salute by giving him the title of thane of Cawdor, to which 
honour he had no pretensions; and again the third bid him "All 
hail! king that shalt be hereafter!" Such a prophetic greeting 
might well amaze him, who knew that while the king's sons lived 
he could not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turning to 
Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be 
lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, but much happier! 
and prophesied that though he should never reign, yet his sons 
after him should be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air, 
and vanished: by which the generals knew them to be the weird 
sisters, or witches. 

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this adven- 
ture, there arrived certain messengers from the king, who were em- 

121 



122 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

powered by him to confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of 
Cawdor : an event so miraculously corresponding with the predic- 
tion of the witches astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in 
amazement, unable to make reply to the messengers; and in that 
point of time swelling hopes arose in his mind that the prediction 
of the third witch might in like manner have its accomplishment, 
and that he should one day reign king in Scotland. 

Turning to Banquo, he said, " Do you not hope that your chil- 
dren shall be kings, when what the witches promised to me has so 
wonderfully come to pass? " " That hope," answered the general, 
"might enkindle you to aim at the throne; but oftentimes these 
ministers of darkness tell us truths in little things, to betray us into 
deeds of greatest consequence." 

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into 
the mind of Macbeth to allow him to attend to the warnings of the 
good Banquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to 
compass the throne of Scotland. 

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange pre- 
diction of the weird sisters, and its partial accomplishment. She 
was a bad, ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself 
could arrive at greatness, she cared not much by what means. She 
spurred on the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunc- 
tion at the thoughts of blood, and did not cease to represent the 
murder of the king as a step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment 
of the flattering prophecy. 

It happened at this time that the king, who out of his royal con- 
descension would oftentimes visit his principal nobility upon gracious 
terms, came to Macbeth's house, attended by his two sons, Malcolm 
and Donalbain, and a numerous train of thanes and attendants, the 
more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars. 

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about 
it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the 
martlet, or swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and but- 
tresses of the building, wherever it found a place of advantage; 



MACBETH 123 

for where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to 
be delicate. The king entered well-pleased with the place, and not 
less so with the attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady 
Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous purposes with 
smiles; and could look like the innocent flower, while she was in- 
deed the serpent under it. 

The king being tired with his journey, went early to bed, and in 
his state-room two grooms of his chamber (as was the custom) 
slept beside him. He had been unusually pleased with his recep- 
tion, and had made presents before he retired to his principal offi- 
cers; and among the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Macbeth, 
greeting her by the name of his most kind hostess. 

Now was the middle of night, when over half the world nature 
seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none 
but the wolf and the murderer is abroad. This was the time when 
lady Macbeth waked to plot the murder of the king. She would 
not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she 
feared her husband's nature, that it was too full of the milk of 
human kindness, to do a contrived murder. She knew him to be 
ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet prepared for 
that height of crime which commonly in the end accompanies in- 
ordinate ambition. She had won him to consent to the murder, 
but she doubted his resolution; and she feared that the natural 
tenderness of his disposition (more humane than her own) would 
come between, and defeat the purpose. So with her own hands 
armed with a dagger, she approached the king's bed; having taken 
care to ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, that they slept 
intoxicated, and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan in a 
sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed 
him earnestly, there was something in hi-s face, as he slept, which 
resembled her own father; and she had not the courage to pro- 
ceed. 

She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution had 
begun to stagger. He considered that there were strong reasons 



i2 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

against the deed. In the first place, he was not only a subject, but 
a near kinsman to the king; and he had been his host and enter- 
tainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was to 
shut the door against his murderers, not bear the knife himself. 
Then he considered how just and merciful a king this Duncan had 
been, how clear of offence to his subjects, how loving to his nobility, 
and in particular to him; that such kings are the peculiar care of 
Heaven, and their subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. 
Besides, by the favours of the king, Macbeth stood high in the 
opinion of all sorts of men, and how would those honours be stained 
by the reputation of so foul a murder! 

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her husband 
inclining to the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. 
But she being a woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, 
began to pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of her 
own spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he 
should not shrink from what he had undertaken ; how easy the deed 
was; how soon it would be over; and how the action of one short 
night would give to all their nights and days to come sovereign 
sway and royalty! Then she threw contempt on his change of 
purpose, and accused him of fickleness and cowardice; and de- 
clared that she had given suck, and knew how tender it was to 
love the babe that milked her; but she would, while it was smiling 
in her face, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed its brains 
out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform that 
murder. Then she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt 
of the deed upon the drunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour 
of her tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he once 
more summoned up courage to the bloody business. 

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to 
the room where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw 
another dagger in the air, with the handle towards him, and on the 
blade and at the point of it drops of blood; but when he tried to 
grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding 



MACBETH i2S 

from his own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had in 
hand. 

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, whom he 
despatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had done the 
murder, one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in 
his sleep, and the other cried, " Murder," which woke them both; 
but they said a short prayer; one of them said, " God bless us! " 
and the other answered "Amen;" and addressed themselves to 
sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried to say, 
"Amen," when the fellow said, "God bless us! " but, though he 
had most need of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat, and he 
could not pronounce it. 

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, " Sleep no more: 
Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life." 
Still it cried, " Sleep no more," to all the house. " Glamis hath 
murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Mac- 
beth shall sleep no more." 

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to his lis- 
tening wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and 
that the deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted 
a state, that she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent 
him to wash his hands of the blood which stained them, while she 
took his dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with 
blood, to make it seem their guilt. 

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which 
could not be concealed; and though Macbeth and his lady made 
great show of grief, and the proofs against the grooms (the dag- 
ger being produced against them and their faces smeared with 
blood) were sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon 
Macbeth, whose inducements to such a deed were so much more 
forcible than such poor silly grooms could be supposed to have; 
and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought for 
refuge in the English court; and the youngest, Donalbain, made his 
escape to Ireland. 



126 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus 
vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and 
thus the prediction of the weird sisters was literally accomplished. 

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget 
the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be 
king, yet not his children, but the children of Banquo, should be 
kings after him. The thought of this, and that they had defiled 
their hands with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the 
posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them, that 
they determined to put to death both Banquo and his son, to make 
void the predictions of the weird sisters, which in their own case 
had been so remarkably brought to pass. 

For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they in- 
vited all the chief thanes; and, among the rest, with marks of 
particular respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The 
way by which Banquo was to pass to the palace at night was beset 
by murderers appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in 
the scuffle Fleance escaped. From that Fleance descended a race 
of monarchs who afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending with 
James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of England, under whom 
the two crowns of England and Scotland were united. 

At supper, the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree 
affable and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and atten- 
tion which conciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed 
freely with his thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honour- 
able in the country was under his roof, if he had but his good friend 
Banquo present, whom yet he hoped he should rather have to chide 
for neglect, than to lament for any mischance. Just at these words 
the ghost of Banquo, whom he had caused to be murdered, entered 
the room and placed himself on the chair which Macbeth was about 
to occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold man, and one that could 
have faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible sight his 
cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood quite unmanned with 
his eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, who 



MACBETH 127 

saw nothing, but perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an 
empty chair, took it for a fit of distraction ; and she reproached him, 
whispering that it was but the same fancy which made him see the 
dagger in the air, when he was about to kill Duncan. But Mac- 
beth continued to see the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could 
say, while he addressed it with distracted words, yet so significant, 
that his queen, fearing the dreadful secret would be disclosed, in 
great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth 
as a disorder he was often troubled with. 

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and 
he had their sleeps afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of 
Banquo troubled them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom 
now they looked upon as father to a line of kings who should keep 
their posterity out of the throne. With these miserable thoughts 
they found no peace, and Macbeth determined once more to seek 
out the weird sisters, and know from them the worst. 

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew 
by foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dread- 
ful charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to 
them futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and 
serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a 
lizard, and the wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the 
tooth of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy 
of a witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to have effect 
must be digged in the dark), the gall of a goat, and the liver of 
a Jew, with slips of the yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the 
finger of a dead child: all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, 
or cauldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was cooled with a 
baboon's blood: to these they poured in the blood of a sow that had 
eaten her young, and they threw into the flame the grease that had 
sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By these charms they bound the 
infernal spirits to answer their questions. 

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have his doubts 
resolved by them, or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing 



i 2 8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

daunted by the dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, 
"Where are they? let me see them." And they called the spirits, 
which were three. And the first arose in the likeness of an armed 
head, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of the 
thane of Fife; for which caution Macbeth thanked him; for Mac- 
beth had entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the thane of Fife. 

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody child, 
and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but 
laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born should 
have power to hurt him ; and he advised him to be bloody, bold, 
and resolute. " Then live, Macduff! " cried the king; " what need 
I fear of thee? but yet I will make assurance doubly sure. Thou 
shalt not live ; that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it lies, and sleep in 
spite of thunder." 

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a child 
crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, 
and comforted him against conspiracies, saying, that he should 
never be vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill 
should come against him. " Sweet bodements! good! " cried Mac- 
beth; " who can unfix the forest, and move it from its earth-bound 
roots? I see I shall live the usual period of man's life, and not be 
cut off by a violent death. But my heart throbs to know one thing. 
Tell me, if your art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue shall ever 
reign in this kingdom? " Here the cauldron sank into the ground, 
and a noise of music was heard, and eight shadows, like kings, 
passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a glass which showed 
the figures of many more, and Banquo all bloody smiled upon Mac- 
beth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth knew that these were 
the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after him in Scotland; 
and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with dancing, mak- 
ing a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from 
this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful. 

The first thing he heard when he got out of the witches' cave, 
was that Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled to England, to join the 




THEY WERE ENGAGED IN PREPARING THEIR DREADFUL CHARMS " 

—Page 127 



MACBETH 129 

army which was forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest 
son of the late king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Mal- 
colm, the right heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, 
set upon the castle of Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom 
the thane had left behind, to the sword, and extended the slaughter 
to all who claimed the least relationship to Macduff. 

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief 
nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and 
Macduff, who were now approaching with a powerful army, which 
they had raised in England; and the rest secretly wished success to 
their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take no active 
part. His recruits went on slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant; 
nobody loved or honoured him ; but all suspected him, and he began 
to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who slept 
soundly in his grave, against whom treason had done its worst: steel 
nor poison, domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any 
longer. 

While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole 
partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek 
a momentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them 
both nightly, died, it is supposed, by her own hands, unable to bear 
the remorse of guilt, and public hate; by which event he was left 
alone, without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he 
could confide his wicked purposes. 

He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but the near 
approach of Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his 
ancient courage, and he determined to die (as he expressed it) 
" with armour on his back." Besides this, the hollow promises of 
the witches had filled him with a false confidence, and he remem- 
bered the sayings of the spirits, that none of woman born was to 
hurt him, and that he was never to be vanquished till Birnam wood 
should come to Dunsinane, which he thought could never be. So 
he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable strength was 
such as defied a siege : here he sullenly waited the approach of 



i 3 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale 
and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he had 
seen; for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, 
he looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began to 
move ! " Liar and slave ! " cried Macbeth; " if thou speakest false, 
thou shalt hang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If 
thy tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me : " for Mac- 
beth now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal 
speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear till Birnam wood should 
come to Dunsinane; and now a wood did move ! " However," said 
he, " if this which he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There 
is no flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the 
sun, and wish my life at an end." With these desperate speeches 
he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who had now come up to the 
castle. 

The strange appearance which had given the messenger an idea 
of a wood moving is easily solved. When the besieging army 
marched through the wood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skilful gen- 
eral, instructed his soldiers to hew down every one a bough and bear 
it before him, by way of concealing the true numbers of his host. 
This marching of the soldiers with boughs had at a distance the 
appearance which had frightened the messenger. Thus were the 
words of the spirit brought to pass, in a sense different from that 
in which Macbeth had understood them, and one great hold of his 
confidence was gone. 

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, 
though feebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, 
but in reality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Mal- 
colm and Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, 
cutting to pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where 
Macduff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the cau- 
tion of the spirit who had counselled him to avoid Macduff, above 
all men, he would have turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking 
him through the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a fierce con- 



MACBETH 131 

test ensued; Macduff giving him many foul reproaches for the 
murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged 
enough with blood of that family already, would still have declined 
the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him tyrant, 
murderer, hell-hound, and villain. 

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none 
of woman born should hurt him; and smiling confidently he said 
to Macduff, " Thou losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou 
mayest impress the air with thy sword, as make me vulnerable. I 
bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born." 

" Despair thy charm," said Macduff, " and let that lying spirit 
whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Macduff was never born of 
woman, never as the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was 
untimely taken from his mother." 

" Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said the trembling 
Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence give way; " and let 
never man in future believe the lying equivocations of witches and 
juggling spirits, who deceive us in words which have double senses, 
and while they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes 
with a different meaning. I will not fight with thee." 

" Then live! " said the scornful Macduff; " we will have a show 
of thee, as men show monsters, and a painted board, on which shall 
be written, ' Here men may see the tyrant! ' " 

"Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned with despair; 
" I will not live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, 
and to be baited with the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam 
wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me, who wast 
never born of woman, yet will I try the last." With these frantic 
words he threw himself upon Macduff, who, after a severe struggle, 
in the end overcame him, and cutting off his head, made a present of 
it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm ; who took upon him the 
government which, by the machinations of the usurper, he had so 
long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Duncan the 
Meek, amid the acclamations of the nobles and the people. 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 

BERTRAM, count of Rousillon, had newly come to his title 
and estate, by the death of his father. The king of France 
loved the father of Bertram, and when he heard of his death, 
he sent for his son to come immediately to his royal court in Paris, 
intending, for the friendship he bore the late count, to grace young 
Bertram with his especial favour and protection. 

Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed countess, when 
Lafeu, an old lord of the French court, came to conduct him to the 
king. The king of France was an absolute monarch, and the invi- 
tation to court was in the form of a royal mandate, or positive 
command, which no subject, of what high dignity soever, might dis- 
obey; therefore though the countess, in parting with this dear son, 
seemed a second time to bury her husband, whose loss she had so 
lately mourned, yet she dared not to keep him a single day, but 
gave instant orders for his departure. Lafeu, who came to fetch 
him, tried to comfort the countess for the loss of her late lord, and 
her son's sudden absence; and he said, in a courtier's flattering 
manner, that the king was so kind a prince, she would find in his 
majesty a husband, and that he would be a father to her son; mean- 
ing only, that the good king would befriend the fortunes of Bert- 
ram. Lafeu told the countess that the king had fallen into a sad 
malady, which was pronounced by his physicians to be incurable. 
The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of the 
king's ill health, and said, she wished the father of Helena (a young 
gentlewoman who was present in attendance upon her) were living, 
for that she doubted not he could have cured his majesty of his 
disease. And she told Lafeu something of the history of Helena, 
saying she was the only daughter of the famous physician Gerard 
de Narbon, and that he had recommended his daughter to her care 

132 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 133 

when he was dying, so that since his death she had taken Helena 
under her protection; then the countess praised the virtuous dispo- 
sition and excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these 
virtues from her worthy father. While she was speaking Helena 
wept in sad and mournful silence, which made the countess gently 
reprove her for too much grieving for her father's death. 

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The countess parted 
with this dear son with tears and many blessings, and commended 
him to the care of Lafeu, saying, " Good my lord, advise him, for 
he is an unseasoned courtier." 

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words 
of mere civility, wishing her happiness ; and he concluded his short 
farewell to her with saying, " Be comfortable to my mother, your 
mistress, and make much of her." 

Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and 
mournful silence, the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. 
Helena loved her father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, 
the object of which she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very 
form and features of her dead father, her imagination presenting 
no image to her mind but Bertram's. 

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered 
that he was the count of Rousillon, descended from the most ancient 
family in France. She of humble birth. Her parents of no note 
at all. His ancestors all noble. And therefore she looked up to 
the high-born Bertram as to her master and to her dear lord, and 
dared not form any wish but to live his servant, and so living to 
die his vassal. So great the distance seemed to her between his 
height of dignity and her lowly fortunes, that she would say, " It 
were all one that I should love a bright particular star, and think 
to wed it, Bertram is so far above me." 

Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears and her heart with 
sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty com- 
fort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look 
upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, 



i 3 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that 
heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the 
features of that loved face. 

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than 
some prescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which by deep 
study and long experience in medicine he had collected as sovereign 
and almost infallible remedies. Among the rest, there was one set 
down as an approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu 
said the king at that time languished: and when Helena heard of 
the king's complaint, she, who till now had been so humble and so 
hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind to go herself 
to Paris, and undertake the cure of the king. But though Helena 
was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the 
king as well as his physicians was of opinion that his disease was 
incurable, that they would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin, 
if she should offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena 
had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the trial, 
seemed more than even her father's skill warranted, though he was 
the most famous physician of his time; for she felt a strong faith 
that this good medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in 
heaven to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to 
the high dignity of being count Rousillon's wife. 

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed 
by her steward, that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, 
and that he understood from some words she uttered, she was in love 
with Bertram, and thought of following him to Paris. The countess 
dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena 
she wished to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena 
brought the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the 
countess; those days probably when her love for Bertram's father 
first began; and she said to herself, " Even so it was with me when 
I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth ; 
for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature's children, these 
faults are ours, though then we think not they are faults." While 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 135 

the countess was thus meditating on the loving errors of her own 
youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, " Helena, you know 
I am a mother to you." Helena replied, " You are my honourable 
mistress." "You are my daughter," said the countess again: "I 
say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at my 
words?" With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing 
the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, " Pardon me, 
madam, you are not my mother; the count Rousillon cannot be my 
brother, nor I your daughter." " Yet, Helena," said the countess, 
"you might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what 
you mean to be, the words mother and daughter so disturb you. 
Helena, do you love my son? " " Good madam, pardon me," said 
the affrighted Helena. Again the countess repeated her question. 
" Do you love my son? " " Do not you love him, madam? " said 
Helena. The countess replied, " Give me not this evasive answer, 
Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, for your 
love has to the full appeared." Helena on her knees now owned 
her love, and with shame and terror implored the pardon of her 
noble mistress; and with words expressive of the sense she had of 
the inequality between their fortunes, she protested Bertram did 
not know she loved him, comparing her humble unaspiring love to 
a poor Indian, who adores the sun that looks upon his worshipper, 
but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she 
had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the design 
she had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the 
king's illness. " This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris," 
said the countess, "was it? Speak truly." Helena honestly an- 
swered, " My lord your son made me to think of this; else Paris, 
and the medicine, and the king, had from the conversation of my 
thoughts been absent then." The countess heard the whole of this 
confession without saying a word either of approval or of blame, 
but she strictly questioned Helena as to the probability of the medi- 
cine being useful to the king. She found that it was the most 
prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed, and that he had 



136 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

given it to his daughter on his deathbed; and remembering the 
solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in regard to this 
young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the king himself, seemed 
to depend on the execution of a project (which though conceived 
by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the countess 
knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Providence to 
bring to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation of 
the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free leave 
she gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and generously fur- 
nished her with ample means and suitable attendants ; and Helena 
set out for Paris with the blessings of the countess, and her kindest 
wishes for her success. 

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend the 
old lord Lafeu, she obtained an audience of the king. She had 
still many difficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily pre- 
vailed on to try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. 
But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter (with whose 
fame the king was well acquainted), and she offered the precious 
medicine as the darling treasure which contained the essence of 
all her father's long experience and skill, and she boldly engaged 
to forfeit her life, if it failed to restore his majesty to perfect health 
in the space of two days. The king at length consented to try it, 
and in two days' time Helena was to lose her life if the king did 
not recover; but if she succeeded, he promised to give her the choice 
of any man throughout all France (the princes only excepted) whom 
she could like for a husband; the choice of a husband being the fee 
Helena demanded if she cured the king of his disease. 

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the 
efficacy of her father's medicine. Before two days were at an end, 
the king was restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the 
young noblemen of his court together, in order to confer the prom- 
ised reward of a husband upon his fair physician; and he desired 
Helena to look around on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, 
and choose her husband. Helena was not slow to make her choice, 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 137 

for among these young lords she saw the count Rousillon, and turn- 
ing to Bertram, she said, " This is the man. I dare not say, my 
lord, I take you, but I give me and my service ever whilst I live 
into your guiding power." " Why, then," said the king, " young 
Bertram, take her; she is your wife." Bertram did not hesitate 
to declare his dislike to this present of the king's of the self-offered 
Helena, who, he said, was a poor physician's daughter, bred at his 
father's charge, and now living a dependent on his mother's bounty. 
Helena heard him speak these words of rejection and of scorn, and 
she said to the king, " That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let 
the rest go." But the king would not suffer his royal command to 
be so slighted; for the power of bestowing their nobles in marriage 
was one of the many privileges of the kings of France; and that 
same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced and uneasy 
marriage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor lady, 
who, though she gained the noble husband she had hazarded her 
life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her hus- 
band's love not being a gift in the power of the king of France to 
bestow. 

Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired by Bertram 
to apply to the king for him for leave of absence from court; and 
when she brought him the king's permission for his departure, Bert- 
ram told her that he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it 
had much unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the 
course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved 
when she found it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her 
to go home to his mother. When Helena heard this unkind com- 
mand, she replied, " Sir, I can nothing say to this, but that I am 
your most obedient servant, and shall ever with true observance 
seek to eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars have failed 
to equal my great fortunes." But this humble speech of Helena's 
did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, 
and he parted from her without even the common civility of a kind 
farewell. 



138 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accom- 
plished the purport of her journey, she had preserved the life of 
the king, and she had wedded her heart's dear lord, the count 
Rousillon; but she returned back a dejected lady to her noble mother- 
in-law, and as soon as she entered the house she received a letter 
from Bertram which almost broke her heart. 

The good countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she 
had been her son's own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she 
spoke kind words to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram 
in sending his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious 
reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, 
" Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone." She then read these 
words out of Bertram's letter: When you can get the ring from my 
finger, which never shall come off, then call me husband, hut in such 
a Then I write a Never. ."This is a dreadful sentence!" said 
Helena. The countess begged her to have patience, and said, now 
Bertram was gone, she should be her child, and that she deserved 
a lord that twenty such rude boys as Bertram might tend upon, and 
hourly call her mistress. But in vain by respectful condescension 
and kind flattery this matchless mother tried to soothe the sorrows 
of her daughter-in-law. 

Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter and cried out in 
an agony of grief, Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. 
The countess asked her if she found those words in the letter? 
" Yes, madam," was all poor Helena could answer. 

The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be 
delivered to the countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with 
the reason of her sudden absence : in this letter she informed her 
that she was so much grieved at having driven Bertram from his 
native country and his home, that to atone for her offence, she had 
undertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and 
concluded with requesting the countess to inform her son that the 
wife he so hated had left his house for ever. 

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 139 

an officer in the duke of Florence's army, and aftera^stfccessful war, 
in which he distinguished himself by many bra^e actions, Bertram 
received letters from his mother, containing the acceptable tidings 
that Helena would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to 
return home, when Helena herself, clad in her pilgrim's weeds, ar- 
rived at the city of Florence. 

Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on 
their way to St. Jaques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this 
city, she heard that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to 
receive into her house the female pilgrims that were going to visit 
the shrine of that saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. 
To this good lady, therefore, Helena went, and the widow gave her 
a courteous welcome, and invited her to see whatever was curious 
in that famous city, and told her that if she would like to see the 
duke's army, she would take her where she might have a full view 
of it. " And you will see a countryman of yours," said the widow; 
" his name is Count Rousillon, who has done worthy service in the 
duke's wars." Helena wanted no second invitation, when she 
found Bertram was to make part of the show. She accompanied 
her hostess; and a sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to look 
once more upon her dear husband's face. " Is he not a handsome 
man? " said the widow. " I like him well," replied Helena, with 
great truth. All the way they walked, the talkative widow's dis- 
course was all of Bertram : she told Helena the story of Bertram's 
marriage, and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife, and 
entered into the duke's army to avoid living with her. To this 
account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently listened, and when 
it was ended, the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then the 
widow began another tale, every word of which sank deep into the 
mind of Helena ; for the story she now told was of Bertram's love 
for her daughter. 

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by 
the king, it seems he was not insensible to love, for since he had 
been stationed with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with 



140 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Diana, a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who 
was Helena's hostess ; and every night, with music of all sorts, and 
songs composed in praise of Diana's beauty, he would come under 
her window, and solicit her love; and all his suit to her was, that 
she would permit him to visit her by stealth after the family were 
retired to rest; but Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant 
this improper request, nor give any encouragement to his suit, know- 
ing him to be a married man; for Diana had been brought up under 
the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though she was now in re- 
duced circumstances, was well born, and descended from the noble 
family of the Capulets. 

All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the 
virtuous principles of her discreet daughter, which she said were 
entirely owing to the excellent education and good advice she had 
given her; and she further said, that Bertram had been particularly 
importunate with Diana to admit him to the visit he so much desired 
that night, because he was going to leave Florence early the next 
morning. 

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the 
widow's daughter, yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena 
conceived a project (nothing discouraged at the ill success of her 
former one) to recover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow 
that she was Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested 
that her kind hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from 
Bertram to take place, and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram 
for Diana; telling them, her chief motive for desiring to have this 
secret meeting with her husband, was to get a ring from him, which 
he had said, if ever she was in possession of he would acknowledge 
her as his wife. 

The widow and her daughter promised to assist her in this affair, 
partly moved by pity for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won 
over to her interest by the promises of reward which Helena made 
them, giving them a purse of money in earnest of her future favour. 
In the course of that day Helena caused information to be sent to 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 141 

Bertram that she was dead; hoping that when he thought himself 
free to make a second choice by the news of her death, he would 
offer marriage to her in her feigned character of Diana. And if 
she could obtain the ring and this promise too, she doubted not she 
should make some future good come of it. 

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into 
Diana's chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The 
flattering compliments and love discourse he addressed to Helena 
were precious sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for 
Diana; and Bertram was so well pleased with her, that he made her 
a solemn promise to be her husband, and to love her for ever; 
which she hoped would be prophetic of a real affection, when he 
should know it was his own wife, the despised Helena, whose con- 
versation had so delighted him. 

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else per- 
haps he would not have been so regardless of her; and seeing her 
every day, he had entirely overlooked her beauty; a face we are 
accustomed to see constantly, losing the effect which is caused by 
the first sight either of beauty or of plainness; and of her under- 
standing it was impossible he should judge, because she felt such 
reverence, mixed with her love for him, that she was always silent 
in his presence: but now that her future fate, and the happy end- 
ing of all her love-projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a 
favourable impression on the mind of Bertram from this night's in- 
terview, she exerted all her wit to please him ; and the simple graces 
of her lively conversation and the endearing sweetness of her man- 
ners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife. 
Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of his regard, 
and he gave it to her; and in return for this ring, which it was of 
such importance to her to possess, she gave him another ring, which 
was one the king had made her a present of. Before it was light in 
the morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set out on 
his journey towards his mother's house. 

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to 



142 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Paris, their further assistance being necessary to the full accomplish- 
ment of the plan she had formed. When they arrived there, they 
found the king was gone upon a visit to the countess of Rousillon, 
and Helena followed the king with all the speed she could make. 

The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who 
had been the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that 
the moment he saw the countess of Rousillon, he began to talk of 
Helena, calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of 
her son; but seeing the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely 
lamented the death of Helena, he said, " My good lady, I have 
forgiven and forgotten all." But the good-natured old Lafeu, who 
was present, and could not bear that the memory of his favourite 
Helena should be so lightly passed over, said, " This I must say, 
the young lord did great offence to his majesty, his mother, and his 
lady; but to himself he did the greatest wrong of all, for he has 
lost a wife whose beauty astonished all eyes, whose words took all 
ears captive, whose deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve 
her." The king said, " Praising what is lost makes the remem- 
brance dear. Well — call him hither;" meaning Bertram, who 
now presented himself before the king : and, on his expressing deep 
sorrow for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his 
dead father's and his admirable mother's sake, pardoned him and 
restored him once more to his favour. But the gracious counte- 
nance of the king was soon changed towards him, for he perceived 
that Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which he had given 
to Helena : and he well remembered that Helena had called all the 
saints in heaven to witness she would never part with that ring, un- 
less she sent it to the king himself upon some great disaster befall- 
ing her; and Bertram, on the king's questioning him how he came 
by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him 
out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day 
of their marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his 
wife, feared he had destroyed her: and he ordered his guards to 
seize Bertram, saying, " I am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 143 

the life of Helena was foully snatched." At this moment Diana 
and her mother entered, and presented a petition to the king, 
wherein they begged his majesty to exert his royal power to compel 
Bertram to marry Diana, he having made her a solemn promise of 
marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger, denied he had made 
any such promise; and then Diana produced the ring (which Helena 
had put into her hands) to confirm the truth of her words; and 
she said that she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in 
exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On hearing 
this, the king ordered the guards to seize her also; and her account 
of the ring differing from Bertram's, the king's suspicions were 
confirmed: and he said, if they did not confess how they came by 
this ring of Helena's, they should be both put to death. Diana 
requested her mother might be permitted to fetch the jeweller of 
whom she bought the ring, which being granted, the widow went 
out, and presently returned leading in Helena herself. 

The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son's 
danger, and had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having 
destroyed his wife might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, 
whom she loved with even a maternal affection, was still living, felt 
a delight she was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce be- 
lieving for joy that it was Helena, said, " Is this indeed the wife 
of Bertram that I see? " Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowl- 
edged wife, replied, " No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of 
a wife you see, the name and not the thing." Bertram cried out, 
" Both, both! O pardon! "— " O my lord," said Helena, " when I 
personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind; and look, 
here is your letter! " reading to him in a joyful tone those words 
which she had once repeated so sorrowfully, When from my finger 
you can get this ring, — "This is done; it was to me you gave the 
ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?" Bertram 
replied, " If you can make it plain that you were the lady I talked 
with that night, I will love you dearly ever, ever dearly." This 
was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with Helena 



144 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

to prove this fact; and the king was so well pleased with Diana, 
for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he so truly 
valued for the service she had done him, that he promised her also 
a noble husband: Helena's history giving him a hint, that it was a 
suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they per- 
form notable services. 

Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeed 
sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved 
wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, 
and herself the countess of Rousillon. 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 

KATHARINE, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of Bap- 
tista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such 
an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper, such a loud- 
tongued scold, that she was known in Padua by no other name than 
Katharine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed impossible, 
that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture to 
marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for defer- 
ring his consent to many excellent offers that were made to her 
gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, 
that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should have 
free leave to address young Bianca. 

It happened, however, that a gentleman, named Petruchio, came 
to Padua, purposely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged 
by these reports of Katharine's temper, and hearing she was rich 
and handsome, resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and 
taming her into a meek and manageable wife. And truly none was 
so fit to set about this herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit 
was as high as Katharine's, and he was a witty and most happy- 
tempered humourist, and withal so wise, and of such a true judg- 
ment, that he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious 
deportment, when his spirits were so calm that himself could have 
laughed merrily at his own angry feigning, for his natural temper 
was careless and easy; the boisterous airs he assumed when he 
became the husband of Katharine being but in sport, or more 
properly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, as the only 
means to overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the 
furious Katharine. 

A courting then Petruchio went to Katharine the Shrew; and first 
of all he applied to Baptista her father, for leave to woo his gentle 

145 



146 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

daughter Katharine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that hav- 
ing heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had come 
from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished her 
married, was forced to confess Katharine would ill answer this char- 
acter, it being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was 
composed, for her music-master rushed into the room to complain 
that the gentle Katharine, his pupil, had broken his head with her 
lute, for presuming to find fault with her performance ; which, when 
Petruchio heard, he said, "It is a brave wench; I love her more 
than ever, and long to have some chat with her;" and hurrying 
the old gentleman for a positive answer, he said, " My business is 
in haste, signior Baptista, I cannot come every day to woo. You 
knew my father : he is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and 
goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry you 
will give with her." Baptista thought his manner was somewhat 
blunt for a lover; but being glad to get Katharine married, he an- 
swered that he would give her twenty thousand crowns for her 
dowry, and half his estate at his death: so this odd match was 
quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise his shrewish daugh- 
ter of her lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio to listen to 
his suit. 

In the mean time Petruchio was settling with himself the mode 
of courtship he would pursue; and he said, " I will woo her with 
some spirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will 
tell her she sings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns, I 
will say she looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If 
she will not speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her lan- 
guage; and if she bids me leave her, I will give her thanks as if she 
bid me stay with her a week." Now the stately Katharine entered, 
and Petruchio first addressed her with " Good morrow, Kate, for 
that is your name, I hear." Katharine, not liking this plain salu- 
tation, said disdainfully, " They call me Katharine who do speak to 
me." "You lie," replied the lover; "for you are called plain 
Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew: but, Kate, 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 147 

you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore, Kate, 
hearing your mildness praised in every town, I am come to woo 
you for my wife." 

A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry 
terms showing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, 
while he still praised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, 
hearing her father coming, he said (intending to make as quick a 
wooing as possible), " Sweet Katharine, let us set this idle chat aside, 
for your father has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry 
is agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will marry you." 

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had 
received him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the 
next Sunday. This Katharine denied, saying she would rather see 
him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for wishing to 
wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired 
her father not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed she 
should seem reluctant before him, but that when they were alone 
he had found her very fond and loving; and he said to her, " Give 
me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice to buy you fine apparel 
against our wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the 
wedding guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich 
clothes, that my Katharine may be fine; and kiss me, Kate, for we 
will be married on Sunday." 

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they 
waited long before Petruchio came, and Katharine wept for vexa- 
tion to think that Petruchio had only been making jest of her. 
At last, however, he appeared; but he brought none of the bridal 
finery he had promised Katharine, nor was he dressed himself like 
a bridegroom, but in strange disordered attire, as if he meant to 
make a sport of the serious business he came about; and his servant 
and the very horses on which they rode were in like manner in mean 
and fantastic fashion habited. 

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said 
Katharine was to be married to him, and not to his clothes; and 



148 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

finding it was in vain to argue with him, to the church they went, 
he still behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest asked 
Petruchio if Katharine should be his wife, he swore so loud that she 
should, that, all amazed, the priest let fall his book, and as he 
stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a 
cuff, that down fell the priest and his book again. And all the 
while they were being married he stamped and swore so, that the 
high-spirited Katharine trembled and shook with fear. After the 
ceremony was over, while they were yet in the church, he called for 
wine, and drank a loud health to the company, and threw a sop 
which was at the bottom of the glass full in the sexton's face, giv- 
ing no other reason for this strange act, than that the sexton's 
beard grew thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was 
drinking. Never sure was there such a mad marriage; but Pe- 
truchio did but put this wildness on, the better to succeed in the plot 
he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. 

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast, but when 
they returned from church, Petruchio, taking hold of Katharine, 
declared his intention of carrying his wife home instantly: and no 
remonstrance of his father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged 
Katharine, could make him change his purpose. He claimed a hus- 
band's right to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and away he hur- 
ried Katharine off: he seeming so daring and resolute that no one 
dared attempt to stop him. 

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and 
lank, which he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his 
servant no better mounted; they journeyed on through rough and 
miry ways, and ever when this horse of Katharine's stumbled, he 
would storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce 
crawl under his burthen, as if he had been the most passionate man 
alive. 

At length, after a weary journey, during which Katharine had 
heard nothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and 
the horses, they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 149 

kindly to her home, but he resolved she should have neither rest 
nor food that night. The tables were spread, and supper soon 
served; but Petruchio, pretending to find fault with every dish, threw 
the meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it 
away; and all this he did, as he said, in love for his Katharine, that 
she might not eat meat that was not well dressed. And when 
Katharine, weary and supperless, retired to rest, he found the same 
fault with the bed, throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the 
room, so that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where if she 
chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by the loud 
voice of her husband, storming at the servants for the ill-making of 
his wife's bridal-bed. 

The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still speaking 
kind words to Katharine, but when she attempted to eat, finding 
fault with everything that was set before her, throwing the break- 
fast on the floor as he had done the supper; and Katharine, the 
haughty Katharine, was fain to beg the servants would bring her 
secretly a morsel of food; but they being instructed by Petruchio, 
replied, they dared not give her anything unknown to their master. 
"Ah," said she, " did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that 
come to my father's door have food given them. But I, who never 
knew what it was to entreat for anything, am starved for want of 
food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with 
brawling fed; and that which vexes me more than all, he does 
it under the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, 
it were present death to me." Here the soliloquy was interrupted 
by the entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning she should be quite 
starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, and he said to 
her, "How fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how dili- 
gent I am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this 
kindness merits thanks. What, not a word? Nay, then you love 
not the meat, and all the pains I have taken is to no purpose." He 
then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger, 
which had abated the pride of Katharine, made her say, though 



150 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

angered to the heart, " I pray you let it stand." But this was 
not all Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he replied, " The 
poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you 
touch the meat." On this Katharine brought out a reluctant " I 
thank you, sir." And now he suffered her to make a slender meal, 
saying, " Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! 
And now, my honey love, we will return to your father's house, and 
revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and caps and golden 
rings, with ruffs and scarfs and fans and double change of finery; " 
and to make her believe he really intended to give her these gay 
things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher, who brought some 
new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her plate to the 
servant to take away, before she had half satisfied her hunger, he 
said, "What, have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a 
cap, saying, "Here is the cap your worship bespoke;" on which 
Petruchio began to storm afresh, saying the cap was moulded in a 
porringer, and that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut shell, 
desiring the haberdasher to take it away and make it bigger. Kath- 
arine said, "I will have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as 
these." — " When you are gentle," replied Petruchio, " you shall 
have one too, and not till then." The meat Katharine had eaten 
had a little revived her fallen spirits, and she said, " Why, sir, I 
trust I may have leave to speak, and speak I will : I am no child, 
no babe; your betters have endured to hear me say my mind; and 
if you cannot, you had better stop your ears." Petruchio would not 
hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a better 
way of managing his wife than keeping up a jangling argument 
with her; therefore his answer was, "Why, you say true; it is 
a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking it." — " Love me, or love 
me not," said Katharine, " I like the cap, and I will have this cap 
or none." — " You say you wish to see the gown," said Petruchio, 
still affecting to misunderstand her. The tailor then came forward 
and showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio, 
whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 151 

as much fault with that. " O mercy, Heaven! " said he, "what 
stuff is here ! What, do you call this a sleeve ? it is like a demi- 
cannon, carved up and down like an apple tart." The tailor said, 
" You bid me make it according to the fashion of the times; " and 
Katharine said, she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was 
enough for Petruchio, and privately desiring these people might be 
paid for their goods, and excuses made to them for the seemingly 
strange treatment he bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and 
furious gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of the 
room; and then, turning to Katharine, he said, "Well, come, my 
Kate, we will go to your father's even in these mean garments we 
now wear." And then he ordered his horses, affirming they should 
reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that it was but seven 
o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very middle of the 
day, when he spoke this; therefore Katharine ventured to say, 
though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his 
manner, " I dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be supper- 
time before we get there." But Petruchio meant that she should 
be so completely subdued, that she should assent to everything he 
said, before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he 
were lord even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said 
it should be what time he pleased to have it, before he set forward; 
" For," he said, " whatever I say or do, you still are crossing it. 
I will not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say 
it is." Another day Katharine was forced to practise her newly- 
found obedience, and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such 
a perfect subjection, that she dared not remember there was such 
a word as contradiction, would Petruchio allow her to go to her 
father's house; and even while they were upon their journey thither, 
she was in danger of being turned back again, only because she 
happened to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon shone 
brightly at noonday. " Now, by my mother's son," said he, " and 
that is myself, it shall be the moon, or stars, or what I list, before 
I journey to your father's house." He then made as if he were 



152 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

going back again; but Katharine, no longer Katharine the Shrew, but 
the obedient wife, said, " Let us go forward, I pray, now we have 
come so far, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please, 
and if you please to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall 
be so for me." This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said 
again, " I say, it is the moon." — " I know it is the moon," replied 
Katharine. " You lie, it is the blessed sun," said Petruchio. 
" Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katharine ; " but sun it is not, 
when you say it is not. What you will have it named, even so it 
is, and so it ever shall be for Katharine." Now then he suffered her 
to proceed on her journey; but further to try if this yielding humour 
would last, he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road as if 
he had been a young woman, saying to him, " Good morrow, gentle 
mistress ; " and asked Katharine if she had ever beheld a fairer 
gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the old man's cheeks, 
and comparing his eyes to two bright stars ; and again he addressed 
him, saying, " Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you ! " 
and said to his wife, " Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's 
sake." The now completely vanquished Katharine quickly adopted 
her husband's opinion, and made her speech in like sort to the old 
gentleman, saying to him, " Young budding virgin, you are fair, 
and fresh, and sweet: whither are you going, and where is your 
dwelling? Happy are the parents of so fair a child." — "Why, 
how now, Kate," said Petruchio; " I hope you are not mad. This 
is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not a maiden, 
as you say he is." On this Katharine said, " Pardon me, old 
gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that everything I look 
on seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I 
hope you will pardon me for my sad mistake." — " Do, good old 
grandsire," said Petruchio, " and tell us which way you are travel- 
ling. We shall be glad of your good company, if you are going 
our way." The old gentleman replied, " Fair sir, and you, my 
merry mistress, your strange encounter has much amazed me. My 
name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son of mine who lives 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 153 

at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman to be the 
father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married to 
Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very 
happy, by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to make : 
and they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to 
Baptista's house, where there was a large company assembled to 
celebrate the wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having 
willingly consented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got 
Katharine off his hands. 

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding 
feast, and there was present also another newly married pair. 

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other new mar- 
ried man, could not forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the 
shrewish disposition of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bride- 
grooms seemed highly pleased with the mild tempers of the ladies 
they had chosen, laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. 
Petruchio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired 
after dinner, and then he perceived Baptista himself joined in the 
laugh against him : for when Petruchio affirmed that his wife would 
prove more obedient than theirs, the father of Katharine said, 
" Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the 
veriest shrew of all." " Well," said Petruchio, " I say no, and 
therefore for assurance that I speak the truth, let us each one send 
for his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come at first 
when she is sent for, shall win a wager which we will propose." 
To this the other two husbands willingly consented, for they were 
quite confident that their gentle wives would prove more obedient 
than the headstrong Katharine; and they proposed a wager of 
twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much 
as that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his 
wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred 
crowns, and Lucentio first sent his servant to desire Bianca would 
come to him. But the servant returned, and said, " Sir, my mistress 
sends you word she is busy and cannot come." — " How," said 



154 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Petruchio, " does she say she is busy and cannot come? Is that 
an answer for a wife? " Then they laughed at him, and said, it 
would be well if Katharine did not send him a worse answer. And 
now it was Hortensio's turn to send for his wife; and he said to his 
servant, " Go, and entreat my wife to come to me." "Oh ho! 
entreat her! " said Petruchio. " Nay, then, she needs must come." 
— " I am afraid, sir," said Hortensio, " your wife will not be en- 
treated." But presently this civil husband looked a little blank, 
when the servant returned without his mistress ; and he said to him, 
" How now! Where is my wife? " — " Sir," said the servant, " my 
mistress says, you have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore 
she will not come. She bids you come to her." — " Worse and 
worse!" said Petruchio; and then he sent his servant, saying, 
" Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I command her to come 
to me." The company had scarcely time to think she would not 
obey this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, " Now, 
by my holidame, here comes Katharine ! " and she entered, saying 
meekly to Petruchio, " What is your will, sir, that you send for 
me?" — "Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife?" said he. 
Katharine replied, " They sit conferring by the parlour fire." — 
" Go, fetch them hither! " said Petruchio. Away went Katharine 
without reply to perform her husband's command. " Here is a 
wonder," said Lucentio, " if you talk of a wonder." — " And so it 
is," said Hortensio; " I marvel what it bodes." — " Marry, peace it 
bodes," said Petruchio, " and love, and quiet life, and right su- 
premacy; and, to be short, everything that is sweet and happy." 
Katharine's father, overjoyed to see this reformation in his daughter, 
said, "Now, fair befall thee, son Petruchio! you have won the 
wager, and I will add another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry, 
as if she were another daughter, for she is changed as if she had 
never been." — " Nay," said Petruchio, " I will win the wager better 
yet, and show more signs of her new-built virtue and obedience." 
Katharine now entering with the two ladies, he continued, " See 
where she comes, and brings your froward wives as prisoners to her 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 155 

womanly persuasion. Katharine, that cap of yours does not be- 
come i you ; off with that bauble, and throw it under foot." Katha- 
rine instantly took off her cap, and threw it down. " Lord! " said 
Hortensio's wife, " may I never have a cause to sigh till I am 
brought to such a silly pass! " And Bianca, she too said, " Fie, 
what foolish duty call you this? " On this Bianca's husband said 
to her, " I wish your duty were as foolish too ! The wisdom of 
your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since dinner- 
time." — " The more fool you," said Bianca, " for laying on my 
duty." — " Katharine," said Petruchio, " I charge you tell these head- 
strong women what duty they owe their lords and husbands." And 
to the wonder of all present, the reformed shrewish lady spoke as 
eloquently in praise of the wifelike duty of obedience, as she had 
practised it implicitly in a ready submission to Petruchio's will. 
And Katharine once more became famous in Padua, not as hereto- 
fore, as Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine the most obedient 
and duteous wife in Padua. 



7 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 

"A HE states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at variance, there 
was a cruel law made at Ephesus, ordaining that if any 
merchant of Syracuse was seen in the city of Ephesus, he 
was to be put to death, unless he could pay a thousand marks for 
the ransom of his life. 

iEgeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets 
of Ephesus, and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy 
fine, or to receive sentence of death. 

iEgeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before he 
pronounced the sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate 
the history of his life, and to tell for what cause he had ventured to 
come to the city of Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan 
merchant to enter. 

iEgeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sorrow had made 
him weary of his life, but that a heavier task could not have been 
imposed upon him than to relate the events of his unfortunate life. 
He then began his own history, in the following words : 

" I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the profession of a 
merchant. I married a lady, with whom I lived very happily, but 
being obliged to go to Epidamnum, I was detained there by my 
business six months, and then, finding I should be obliged to stay 
some time longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, 
was brought to bed of two sons, and what was very strange, they 
were both so exactly alike, that it was impossible to distinguish the 
one from the other. At the same time that my wife was brought to 
bed of these twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where my wife 
lodged was brought to bed of two sons, and these twins were as 
much like each other as my two sons were. The parents of these 

156 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 157 

children being exceeding poor, I bought the two boys, and brought 
them up to attend upon my sons. 

" My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little 
proud of two such boys : and she daily wishing to return home, I 
unwillingly agreed, and in an evil hour we got on shipboard; for 
we had not sailed above a league from Epidamnum before a dreadful 
storm arose, which continued with such violence, that the sailors 
seeing no chance of saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save 
their own lives, leaving us alone in the ship, which we every moment 
expected would be destroyed by the fury of the storm. 

" The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous complaints 
of the pretty babes, who, not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, 
because they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror for them, 
though I did not for myself fear death; and all my thoughts were 
bent to contrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest son to 
the end of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men provide against 
storms; at the other end I bound the youngest of the twin slaves, 
and at the same time I directed my wife how to fasten the other 
children in like manner to another mast. She thus having the care 
of the two eldest children, and I of the two younger, we bound our- 
selves separately to these masts with the children; and but for this 
contrivance we had all been lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock, 
and was dashed in pieces; and we, clinging to these slender masts, 
were supported above the water, where I, having the care of two 
children, was unable to assist my wife, who with the other children 
was soon separated from me; but while they were yet in my sight, 
they were taken up by a boat of fishermen, from Corinth (as I sup- 
posed), and seeing them in safety, I had no care but to struggle with 
the wild sea-waves, to preserve my dear son and the youngest slave. 
At length we, in our turn, were taken up by a ship, and the sailors, 
knowing me, gave us kind welcome and assistance, and landed us in 
safety at Syracuse; but from that sad hour I have never known 
what became of my wife and eldest child. 

" My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen 



158 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

years of age, began to be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, 
and often importuned me that he might take his attendant, the 
young slave, who had also lost his brother, and go in search of them : 
at length I unwillingly gave consent, for though I anxiously desired 
to hear tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my younger 
one to find them, I hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven 
years since my son left me; five years have I passed in travelling 
through the world in search of him : I have been in farthest Greece, 
and through the bounds of Asia, and coasting homewards, I landed 
here in Ephesus, being unwilling to leave any place unsought that 
harbours men; but this day must end the story of my life, and happy 
should I think myself in my death, if I were assured my wife and 
sons were living." 

Here the hapless iEgeon ended the account of his misfortunes; 
and the duke, pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought 
upon himself this great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it 
were not against the laws, which his oath and dignity did not per- 
mit him to alter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead of doom- 
ing him to instant death, as the strict letter of the law required, he 
would give him that day to try if he could beg or borrow the money 
to pay the fine. 

This day of grace did seem no great favour to iEgeon, for not 
knowing any man in Ephesus, there seemed to him but little chance 
that any stranger would lend or give him a thousand marks to pay 
the fine; and helpless and hopeless of any relief, he retired from the 
presence of the duke in the custody of a jailor. 

iEgeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very 
time he was in danger of losing his life through the careful search 
he was making after his youngest son, that son and his eldest son 
also were both in the city of Ephesus. 

iEgeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in face and person, were 
both named alike, being both called Antipholus, and the two twin 
slaves were also both named Dromio. iEgeon's youngest son, 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 159 

Antipholus of Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus 
to seek, happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that 
very same day that iEgeon did; and he being also a merchant of 
Syracuse, he would have been in the same danger that his father 
was, but by good fortune he met a friend who told him the peril 
an old merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass for a 
merchant of Epidamnum ; this Antipholus agreed to do, and he was 
sorry to hear one of his own countrymen was in this danger, but he 
little thought this old merchant was his own father. 

The eldest son of iEgeon (who must be called Antipholus of 
Ephesus, to distinguish him from his brother Antipholus of Syra- 
cuse) had lived at Ephesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, 
was well able to have paid the money for the ransom of his father's 
life; but Antipholus knew nothing of his father, being so young when 
he was taken out of the sea with his mother by the fishermen that 
he only remembered he had been so preserved, but he had no recol- 
lection of either his father or his mother; the fishermen who took up 
this Antipholus and his mother and the young slave Dromio, having 
carried the two children away from her (to the great grief of that 
unhappy lady) , intending to sell them. 

Antipholus and Dromio were sold by them to duke Menaphon, a 
famous warrior, who was uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he 
carried the boys to Ephesus when he went to visit the duke his 
nephew. 

The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young Antipholus, when 
he grew up, made him an officer in his army, in which he distin- 
guished himself by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved 
the life of his patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying 
him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus; with whom he was living 
(his slave Dromio still attending him) at the time his father came 
there. 

Antipholus of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who ad- 
vised him to say he came from Epidamnum, gave his slave Dromio 



160 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

some money to carry to the inn where he intended to dine, and in 
the mean time he said he would walk about and view the city, and 
observe the manners of the people. 

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholus was dull and 
melancholy he used to divert himself with the odd humours and 
merry jests of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed 
in Dromio were greater than is usual between masters and their 
servants. 

When Antipholus of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood 
awhile thinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother 
and his brother, of whom in no place where he landed could he hear 
the least tidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself, " I am like a 
drop of water in the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow drop, 
loses itself in the wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and 
a brother, do lose myself." 

While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, which had 
hitherto been so useless, Dromio (as he thought) returned. Anti- 
pholus, wondering that he came back so soon, asked him where he 
had left the money. Now it was not his own Dromio, but the twin- 
brother that lived with Antipholus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. 
The two Dromios and the two Antipholuses were still as much alike 
as iEgeon had said they were in their infancy; therefore no wonder 
Antipholus thought it was his own slave returned, and asked him 
why he came back so soon. Dromio replied, " My mistress sent me 
to bid you come to dinner. The capon burns, and the pig falls from 
the spit, and the meat will be all cold if you do not come home." 
" These jests are out of season," said Antipholus: " where did you 
leave the money? " Dromio still answering, that his mistress had 
sent him to fetch Antipholus to dinner: "What mistress?" said 
Antipholus. " Why, your worship's wife, sir," replied Dromio. 
Antipholus having no wife, he was very angry with Dromio, and 
said, " Because I familiarly sometimes chat with you, you presume 
to jest with me in this free manner. I am not in a sportive humour 
now: where is the money? we being strangers here, how dare you 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 161 

trust so great a charge from your own custody? " Dromio hearing 
his master, as he thought him, talk of their being strangers, sup- 
posing Antipholus was jesting, replied merrily, " I pray you, sir, 
jest as you sit at dinner. I had no charge but to fetch you home, 
to dine with my mistress and her sister." Now Antipholus lost all 
patience, and beat Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress that 
his master had refused to come to dinner, and said that he had no 
wife. 

Adriana, the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus, was very angry when 
she heard that her husband said he had no wife; for she was of 
a jealous temper, and she said her husband meant that he loved 
another lady better than herself; and she began to fret, and say 
unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her husband; and her 
sister Luciana, who lived with her, tried in vain to persuade her 
out of her groundless suspicions. 

Antipholus of Syracuse went to the inn, and found Dromio with 
the money in safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going 
again to chide him for his free jests, when Adriana came up to him, 
and not doubting but it was her husband she saw, she began to 
reproach him for looking strange upon her (as well he might, never 
having seen this angry lady before) ; and then she told him how 
well he loved her before they were married, and that now he loved 
some other lady instead of her. " How comes it now, my hus- 
band," said she, " O how comes it that I have lost your love? " — 
"Plead you to me, fair dame?" said the astonished Antipholus. 
It was in vain he told her he was not her husband, and that he had 
been in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted on his going home with 
her, and Antipholus at last, being unable to get away, went with 
her to his brother's house, and dined with Adriana and her sister, 
the one calling him husband, and the other brother, he, all amazed, 
thinking he must have been married to her in his sleep, or that he 
was sleeping now. And Dromio, who followed them, was no less 
surprised, for the cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also 
claimed him for her husband. 



162 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

While Antipholus of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, 
his brother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his 
slave Dromio; but the servants would not open the door, because 
their mistress had ordered them not to admit any company; and 
when they repeatedly knocked, and said they were Antipholus and 
Dromio, the maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholus was 
at dinner with their mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen; and 
though they almost knocked the door down, they could not gain 
admittance, and at last Antipholus went away very angry, and 
strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman was dining with his wife. 

When Antipholus of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so 
perplexed at the lady's still persisting in calling him husband, and 
at hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, 
that he left the house, as soon as he could find any pretence to get 
away; for though he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, 
yet the jealous-tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was 
Dromio at all better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen: there- 
fore both master and man were glad to get away from their new 
wives as fast as they could. 

The moment Antipholus of Syracuse had left the house, he was 
met by a goldsmith, who mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for 
Antipholus of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him by his 
name; and when Antipholus would have refused the chain, saying it 
did not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he made it by his own 
orders; and went away, leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholus, 
who ordered his man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not 
choosing to stay in a place any longer, where he met with such 
strange adventures that he surely thought himself bewitched. 

The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antipholus, 
was arrested immediately after for a sum of money he owed; and 
Antipholus, the married brother, to whom the goldsmith thought 
he had given the chain, happened to come to the place where the 
officer was arresting the goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholus, 
asked him to pay for the gold chain he had just delivered to him, 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 163 

the price amounting to nearly the same sum as that for which he had 
been arrested. Antipholus denying the having received the chain, 
and the goldsmith persisting to declare that he had but a few 
minutes before given it to him, they disputed this matter a long time, 
both thinking they were right: for Antipholus knew the goldsmith 
never gave him the chain, and so like were the two brothers, the 
goldsmith was as certain he had delivered the chain into his hands, 
till at last the officer took the goldsmith away to prison for the debt 
he owned, and at the same time the goldsmith made the officer ar- 
rest Antipholus for the price of the chain; so that at the conclusion 
of their dispute, Antipholus and the merchant were both taken away 
to prison together. 

As Antipholus was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, 
his brother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him 
to go to Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the money for which 
he was arrested. Dromio wondering that his master should send 
him back to the strange house where he dined, and from which he 
had just before been in such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, 
though he came to tell his master the ship was ready to sail : for 
he saw Antipholus was in no humour to be jested with. Therefore 
he went away, grumbling within himself, that he must return to 
Adriana's house, " Where," said he, " Dowsabel claims me for a 
husband: but I must go, for servants must obey their masters' com- 
mands." 

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he 
met Antipholus of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surpris- 
ing adventures he met with; for his brother being well known in 
Ephesus, there was hardly a man he met in the streets but saluted 
him as an old acquaintance : some offered him money which they 
said was owing to him, some invited him to come and see them, and 
some gave him thanks for kindnesses they said he had done them, 
all mistaking him for his brother. A tailor showed him some silks 
he had bought for him, and insisted upon taking measure of him 
for some clothes. 



1 64 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Antipholus began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers 
and witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his 
bewildered thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the officer 
who was carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold 
which Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of 
Dromio's of the arrest and of a prison, and of the money he had 
brought from Adriana, perfectly confounded Antipholus, and he 
said, " This fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wander 
here in illusions; " and quite terrified at his own confused thoughts, 
he cried out, " Some blessed power deliver us from this strange 
place!" 

And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, 
and she too called him Antipholus, and told him he had dined with 
her that day, and asked him for a gold chain which she said he had 
promised to give her. Antipholus now lost all patience, and calling 
her a sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised her a chain, 
or dined with her, or had even seen her face before that moment. 
The lady persisted in affirming he had dined with her, and had 
promised her a chain, which Antipholus still denying, she further 
said, that she had given him a valuable ring, and if he would not 
give her the gold chain, she insisted upon having her own ring again. 
On this Antipholus became quite frantic, and again calling her 
sorceress and witch, and denying all knowledge of her or her ring, 
ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his words and his 
wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more certain than that he 
had dined with her, and that she had given him a ring, in conse- 
quence of his promising to make her a present of a gold chain. 
But this lady had fallen into the same mistake the others had done, 
for she had taken him for his brother : the married Antipholus had 
done all the things she taxed this Antipholus with. 

When the married Antipholus was denied entrance into his own 
house (those within supposing him to be already there), he had 
gone away very angry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous 
freaks, to which she was very subject, and remembering that she had 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 165 

often falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he, to be revenged 
on her for shutting him out of his own house, determined to go and 
dine with this lady, and she receiving him with great civility, and his 
wife having so highly offended him, Antipholus promised to give 
her a gold chain, which he had intended as a present for his wife; 
it was the same chain which the goldsmith by mistake had given to 
his brother. The lady liked so well the thoughts of having a fine 
gold chain, that she gave the married Antipholus a ring; which 
when, as she supposed (taking his brother for him), he denied, 
and said he did not know her, and left her in such a wild passion, 
she began to think he was certainly out of his senses; and presently 
she resolved to go and tell Adriana that her husband was mad. 
And while she was telling it to Adriana, he came, attended by the 
jailor (who allowed him to come home to get the money to pay the 
debt), for the purse of money, which Adriana had sent by Dromio, 
and he had delivered to the other Antipholus. 

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's 
madness must be true, when he reproached her for shutting him out 
of his own house ; and remembering how he had protested all dinner- 
time that he was not her husband, and had never been in Ephesus 
till that day, she had no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid 
the jailor the money, and having discharged him, she ordered her 
servants to bind her husband with ropes, and had him conveyed 
into a dark room, and sent for a doctor to come and cure him of 
his madness : Antipholus all the while hotly exclaiming against this 
false accusation, which the exact likeness he bore to his brother had 
brought upon him. But his rage only the more confirmed them in 
the belief that he was mad; and Dromio persisting in the same story, 
they bound him also, and took him away along with his master. 

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a 
servant came to tell her that Antipholus and Dromio must have 
broken loose from their keepers, for that they were both walking at 
liberty in the next street. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch 
him home, taking some people with her to secure her husband again; 



1 66 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

and her sister went along with her. When they came to the gates 
of a convent in their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholus and 
Dromio, as they thought, being again deceived by the likeness of 
the twin-brothers. 

Antipholus of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this 
likeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had 
given him was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching 
him for denying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and Anti- 
pholus was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain 
in the morning, and that from that hour he had never seen the gold- 
smith again. 

And now Adriana came up to him and claimed him as her lunatic 
husband, who had escaped from his keepers; and the men she 
brought with her were going to lay violent hands on Antipholus and 
Dromio; but they ran into the convent, and Antipholus begged the 
abbess to give him shelter in her house. 

And now came out the lady abbess herself to inquire into the 
cause of this disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and 
wise to judge of what she saw, and she would not too hastily give 
up the man who had sought protection in her house ; so she strictly 
questioned the wife about the story she told of her husband's mad- 
ness, and she said, " What is the cause of this sudden distemper of 
your husband's? Has he lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death 
of some dear friend that has disturbed his mind? " Adriana re- 
plied, that no such things as these had been the cause. " Perhaps," 
said the abbess, " he has fixed his affections on some other lady than 
you his wife; and that has driven him to this state." Adriana said 
she had long thought the love of some other lady was the cause of 
his frequent absences from home. Now it was not his love for an- 
other, but the teasing jealousy of his wife's temper, that often 
obliged Antipholus to leave his home; and (the abbess suspecting 
this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learn the truth, 
she said, " You should have reprehended him for this." — " Why, 
so I did," replied Adriana. " Ay," said the abbess, " but perhaps 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 167 

not enough." Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she had 
said enough to Antipholus on this subject, replied, " It was the con- 
stant subject of our conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep 
for speaking of it. At table I would not let him eat for speaking 
of it. When I was alone with him, I talked of nothing else ; and in 
company I gave him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how 
vile and bad it was in him to love any lady better than me." 

The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession from the jeal- 
ous Adriana, now said, " And therefore comes it that your husband 
is mad. The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more 
deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hin- 
dered by your railing; no wonder that his head is light: and his meat 
was sauced with your upbraidings; unquiet meals make ill digestions, 
and that has thrown him into this fever. You say his sports were 
disturbed by your brawls; being debarred from the enjoyment of 
society and recreation, what could ensue but dull melancholy and 
comfortless despair? The consequence is then, that your jealous 
fits have made your husband mad." 

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always repre- 
hended her husband mildly; and she said to her sister, " Why do you 
hear these rebukes without answering them? " But the abbess had 
made her so plainly perceive her fault, that she could only answer, 
" She has betrayed me to my own reproof." 

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on 
having her husband delivered up to her; but the abbess would suffer 
no person to enter her house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy 
man to the care of the jealous wife, determining herself to use gentle 
means for his recovery, and she retired into her house again, and 
ordered her gates to be shut against them. 

During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors 
had happened from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, 
old iEgeon's day of grace was passing away, it being now near sun- 
set; and at sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the 
money. 



1 68 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

The place of his execution was near this convent, and here he ar- 
rived just as the abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending 
in person, that if any offered to pay the money, he might be present 
to pardon him. 

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the 
duke for justice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver 
up her lunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her 
real husband and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came be- 
fore the duke to demand justice, complaining that his wife had con- 
fined him on a false charge of lunacy; and telling in what manner 
he had broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. 
Adriana was strangely surprised to see her husband, when she 
thought he had been within the convent. 

iEgeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left 
him to go in search of his mother and his brother; and he felt secure 
that this dear son would readily pay the money demanded for his 
ransom. He therefore spoke to Antipholus in words of fatherly 
affection, with joyful hope that he should now be released. But to 
the utter astonishment of iEgeon, his son denied all knowledge of 
him, as well he might for this Antipholus had never seen his father 
since they were separated in the storm in his infancy; but while the 
poor old iEgeon was in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowl- 
edge him, thinking surely that either his griefs and the anxieties he 
had suffered had so strangely altered him that his son did not know 
him, or else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his father in his 
misery; in the midst of this perplexity, the lady abbess and the other 
Antipholus and Dromio came out, and the wondering Adriana saw 
two husbands and two Dromios standing before her. 

And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, 
were clearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholuses 
and the two Dromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured 
aright of these seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story 
iEgeon had told him in the morning; and he said, these men must 
be the two sons of ^Egeon and their twin slaves. 




"each dromio complimented his brother on his good looks" 

—Page 169 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 169 

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of 
iEgeon; and the tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and 
under sentence of death, before the setting sun went down was 
brought to a happy conclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made 
herself known to be the long-lost wife of iEgeon, and the fond 
mother of the two Antipholuses. 

When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholus and Dromio away 
from her, she entered a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous con- 
duct, she was at length made lady abbess of this convent, and in 
discharging the rites of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had 
unknowingly protected her own son. 

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these 
long separated parents and their children made them for a while for- 
get that iEgeon was yet under sentence of death; but when they 
were become a little calm, Antipholus of Ephesus offered the duke 
the ransom money for his father's life; but the duke freely par- 
doned iEgeon, and would not take the money. And the duke went 
with the abbess and her newly-found husband and children into the 
convent, to hear this happy family discourse at leisure of the blessed 
ending of their adverse fortunes. And the two Dromios' humble 
joy must not be forgotten; they had their congratulations and greet- 
ings too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother on 
his good looks, being well pleased to see his own person (as in a 
glass) show so handsome in his brother. 

Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother- 
in-law, that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jeal- 
ous of her husband. 

Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of his 
brother's wife; and the good old iEgeon, with his wife and sons, 
lived at Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling of these per- 
plexities so entirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, 
but that sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical 
blunders would happen, and the one Antipholus, and the one 
Dromio, be mistaken for the other, making altogether a pleasant 
and diverting Comedy of Errors. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 

IN the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such a mild 
and gentle temper, that he suffered his subjects to neglect the 
laws with impunity ; and there was in particular one law, the ex- 
istence of which was almost forgotten, the duke never having put it 
in force during his whole reign. This was a law dooming any man 
to the punishment of death, who should live with a woman that was 
not his wife; and this law, through the lenity of the duke, being 
utterly disregarded, the holy institution of marriage became neg- 
lected, and complaints were every day made to the duke by the 
parents of the young ladies in Vienna, that their daughters had been 
seduced from their protection, and were living as the companions 
of single men. 

The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among 
his subjects; but he thought that a sudden change in himself from 
the indulgence he had hitherto shown, to the strict severity requisite 
to check this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved 
him) consider him as a tyrant; therefore he determined to absent 
himself a while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full 
exercise of his power, that the law against these dishonourable 
lovers might be put in effect, without giving offence by an unusual 
severity in his own person. 

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for 
his strict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person to 
undertake this important charge; and when the duke imparted his 
design to lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said, " If any 
man in Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, 
it is lord Angelo." And now the duke departed from Vienna under 
pretence of making a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act 
as the lord deputy in his absence; but the duke's absence was only 

170 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 171 

a feigned one, for he privately returned to Vienna, habited like a 
friar, with the intent to watch unseen the conduct of the saintly- 
seeming Angelo. 

It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with 
his new dignity, that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had 
seduced a young lady from her parents; and for this offence, by 
command of the new lord deputy, Claudio was taken up and com- 
mitted to prison, and by virtue of the old law which had been so 
long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be beheaded. Great 
interest was made for the pardon of young Claudio, and the good 
old lord Escalus himself interceded for him. " Alas," said he, 
" this gentleman whom I would save had an honourable father, for 
whose sake I pray you pardon the young man's transgression." 
But Angelo replied, " We must not make a scare-crow of the 
law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it 
harmless, makes it their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must 
die." 

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the prison, and 
Claudio said to him, " I pray you, Lucio, do me this kind service. 
Go to my sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent 
of Saint Clare; acquaint her with the danger of my state; implore 
her that she make friends with the strict deputy; bid her go her- 
self to Angelo. I have great hopes in that; for she can discourse 
with prosperous art, and well she can persuade; besides, there is 
a speechless dialect in youthful sorrow, such as moves men." 

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered 
upon her noviciate in the convent, and it was her intent, after pass- 
ing through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she 
was inquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when 
they heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious 
house, said, " Peace be in this place! " — " Who is it that speaks? " 
said Isabel. "It is a man's voice," replied the nun: "Gentle 
Isabel, go to him, and learn his business; you may, I may not. 
When you have taken the veil, you must not speak with men but in 



172 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

the presence of the prioress; then if you speak you must not show 
your face, or if you show your face, you must not speak." — " And 
have you nuns no further privileges? " said Isabel. " Are not these 
large enough?" replied the nun. "Yes, truly," said Isabel: "I 
speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more strict restraint 
upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare." Again they 
heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, " He calls again. I 
pray you answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in 
answer to his salutation, said, " Peace and Prosperity! Who is it 
that calls?" Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said, 
" Hail, virgin, if such you be, as the roses on your cheeks pro- 
claim you are no less ! can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a 
novice of this place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother 
Claudio?" — "Why her unhappy brother?" said Isabel, "let me 
ask! for I am that Isabel, and his sister." — " Fair and gentle lady," 
he replied, " your brother kindly greets you by me; he is in prison." 
■ — "Woe is me! for what?" said Isabel. Lucio then told her, 
Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a young maiden. " Ah," said 
she, " I fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet and Isabel were not 
related, but they called each other cousin in remembrance of their 
school days' friendship ; and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved 
Claudio, she feared she had been led by her affection for him into 
this transgression. " She it is," replied Lucio. " Why then, let 
my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. Lucio replied that Claudio 
would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had sentenced 
him to die for his offence; " Unless," said he, " you have the grace 
by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my business be- 
tween you and your poor brother." — " Alas! " said Isabel, " what 
poor ability is there in me to do him good? I doubt I have no 
power to move Angelo." — " Our doubts are traitors," said Lucio, 
" and make us lose the good we might often win, by fearing to 
attempt it. Go to lord Angelo ! When maidens sue, and kneel, 
and weep, men give like gods." — " I will see what I can do," said 
Isabel: " I will but stay to give the prioress notice of the affair, and 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 173 

then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother : soon at 
night I will send him word of my success." 

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on her knees 
before Angelo, saying, " I am a woful suitor to your honour, if it 
will please your honour to hear me." — " Well, what is your suit? " 
said Angelo. She then made her petition in the most moving 
terms for her brother's life. But Angelo said, " Maiden, there is 
no remedy; your brother is sentenced, and he must die." — " O just, 
but severe law," said Isabel : " I had a brother then — Heaven keep 
your honour ! " and she was about to depart. But Lucio, who had 
accompanied her, said, " Give it not over so; return to him again, 
entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon his gown. You 
are too cold; if you should need a pin, you could not with a more 
tame tongue desire it." Then again Isabel on her knees implored 
for mercy. "He is sentenced," said Angelo: "it is too late." — 
" Too late! " said Isabel: " Why, no: I that do speak a word may 
call it back again. Believe this, my lord, no ceremony that to 
great ones belongs, not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becomes them with 
one half so good a grace as mercy does." — " Pray you begone," said 
Angelo. But still Isabel entreated; and she said, " If my brother 
had been as you, and you as he, you might have slipped like him, 
but he, like you, would not have been so stern. I would to heaven 
I had your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then be thus? 
No, I would tell you what it were to be a judge, and what a 
prisoner." — " Be content, fair maid! " said Angelo: " it is the law, 
not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, my brother, 
or my son, it should be thus with him. He must die to-morrow." 
— "To-morrow?" said Isabel; "Oh, that is sudden: spare him, 
spare him; he is not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens 
we kill the fowl in season; shall we serve Heaven with less respect 
than we minister to our gross selves? Good, good my lord, be- 
think you, none have died for my brother's offence, though many 
have committed it. So you would be the first that gives this sen- 



174 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

tence, and he the first that suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my 
lord; knock there, and ask your heart what it does know that is 
like my brother's fault; if it confess a natural guiltiness such as his 
is, let it not sound a thought against my brother's life! " Her last 
words more moved Angelo than all she had before said, for the 
beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion in his heart, and he 
began to form thoughts of dishonourable love, such as Claudio's 
crime had been ; and the conflict in his mind made him to turn away 
from Isabel; but she called him back, saying, "Gentle my lord, 
turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my lord, turn back! " 
— " How, bribe me ! " said Angelo, astonished that she should think 
of offering him a bribe. " Ay," said Isabel, " with such gifts that 
Heaven itself shall share with you; not with golden treasures, or 
those glittering stones, whose price is either rich or poor as fancy 
values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to Heaven be- 
fore sunrise, — prayers from preserved souls, from fasting maids 
whose minds are dedicated to nothing temporal." — " Well, come 
to me to-morrow," said Angelo. And for this short respite of 
her brother's life, and for this permission that she might be heard 
again, she left him with the joyful hope that she should at last pre- 
vail over his stern nature: and as she went away she said, " Heaven 
keep your honour safe! Heaven save your honour!" Which 
when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, " Amen, I would be 
saved from thee and from thy virtues: " and then, affraighted at his 
own evil thoughts, he said, " What is this? What is this? Do I 
love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her 
eyes? What is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, 
to catch a saint, with saints does bait the hook. Never could an 
immodest woman once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman sub- 
dues me quite. Even till now, when men were fond, I smiled and 
wondered at them." 

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered more that night 
than the prisoner he had so severely sentenced; for in the prison 
Claudio was visited by the good duke, who, in his friar's habit, 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 175 

taught the young man the way to heaven, preaching to him the 
words of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of 
irresolute guilt: now wishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of 
innocence and honour, and now suffering remorse and horror for a 
crime as yet but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts 
prevailed; and he who had so lately started at the offer of a bribe, 
resolved to tempt this maiden with so high a bribe, as she might not 
be able to resist, even with the precious gift of her dear brother's 
life. 

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be 
admitted alone to his presence : and being there, he said to her, if 
she would yield to him her virgin honour and transgress even as 
Juliet had done with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life; 
" For," said he, " I love you, Isabel." — " My brother," said Isabel, 
" did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall die for it." — 
" But," said Angelo, " Claudio shall not die, if you will consent to 
visit me by stealth at night, even as Juliet left her father's house 
at night to come to Claudio." Isabel, in amazement at his words, 
that he should tempt her to the same fault for which he passed 
sentence upon her brother, said, " I would do as much for my poor 
brother as for myself; that is, were I under sentence of death, the 
impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go to my 
death as to a bed that longing I had been sick for, ere I would 
yield myself up to this shame." And then she told him, she hoped 
he only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he said, " Believe 
me, on my honour, my words express my purpose." Isabel, angered 
to the heart to hear him use the word Honour to express such dis- 
honourable purposes, said, " Ha! little honour to be much believed; 
and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look 
for it ! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the 
world aloud what man thou art ! " — " Who will believe you, 
Isabel?" said Angelo; "my unsoiled name, the austereness of my 
life, my word vouched against yours, will outweigh your accusa- 
tion. Redeem your brother by yielding to my will, or he shall die 



176 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

to-morrow. As for you, say what you can, my false will over- 
weigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow." 

"To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would 
believe me?" said Isabel, as she went towards the dreary prison 
where her brother was confined. When she arrived there, her 
brother was in pious conversation with the duke, who in his friar's 
habit had also visited Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to 
a proper sense of their fault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a 
true remorse confessed that she was more to blame than Claudio, 
in that she willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations. 

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said, 
" Peace be here, grace, and good company! " — " Who is there? " 
said the disguised duke; " come in; the wish deserves a welcome." — 
" My business is a word or two with Claudio," said Isabel. Then 
the duke left them together, and desired the provost, who had the 
charge of the prisoners, to place him where he might overhear their 
conversation. 

" Now, sister, what is the comfort? " said Claudio. Isabel told 
him he must prepare for death on the morrow. " Is there no 
remedy?" said Claudio. — "Yes, brother," replied Isabel, "there 
is; but such a one, as if you consented to it would strip your honour 
from you, and leave you naked." — " Let me know the point," said 
Claudio. " O, I do fear you, Claudio! " replied his sister; " and 
I quake, lest you should wish to live, and more respect the trifling 
term of six or seven winters added to your life, than your perpetual 
honour! Do you dare to die? The sense of death is most in 
apprehension, and the poor beetle that we tread upon, feels a pang 
as great as when a giant dies." " Why do you give me this 
shame? " said Claudio. " Think you I can fetch a resolution from 
flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a 
bride, and hug it in my arms." — " There spoke my brother," said 
Isabel; " there my father's grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you 
must die; yet would you think it, Claudio! this outward sainted 
deputy, if I would yield to him my virgin honour, would grant your 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 177 

life. O, were it but my life, I would lay it down for your deliver- 
ance as frankly as a pin! " — "Thanks, dear Isabel," said Claudio. 
" Be ready to die to-morrow," said Isabel. " Death is a fearful 
thing," said Claudio. " And shamed life a hateful," replied his 
sister. But the thoughts of death now overcame the constancy of 
Claudio's temper, and terrors, such as the guilty only at their deaths 
do know, assailing him, he cried out, " Sweet sister, let me live ! 
The sin you do to save a brother's life, nature dispenses with the 
deed so far, that it becomes a virtue." — " O faithless coward! O 
dishonest wretch! " said Isabel; "would you preserve your life by 
your sister's shame? O fie, fie, fie! I thought, my brother, you 
had in you such a mind of honour, that had you twenty heads to 
render up on twenty blocks, you would have yielded them up all, 
before your sister should stoop to such dishonour." " Nay, hear 
me, Isabel!" said Claudio. But what he would have said in 
defence of his weakness, in desiring to live by the dishonour of his 
virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance of the duke; who 
said, " Claudio, I have overheard what has passed between you 
and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; 
what he said, has only been to make trial of her virtue. She hav- 
ing the truth of honour in her, has given him that gracious denial 
which he is most glad to receive. There is no hope that he will 
pardon you ; therefore pass your hours in prayer, and make ready 
for death." Then Claudio repented of his weakness, and said, 
" Let me ask my sister's pardon! I am so out of love with life, 
that I will sue to be rid of it." And Claudio retired, overwhelmed 
with shame and sorrow for his fault. 

The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended her virtuous 
resolution, saying, " The hand that made you fair, has made you 
good." — " O," said Isabel, " how much is the good duke deceived 
in Angelo ! if ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will dis- 
cover his government." Isabel knew not that she was even now 
making the discovery she threatened. The duke replied, " That 
shall not be much amiss; yet as the matter now stands, Angelo will 



178 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

repel your accusation; therefore lend an attentive ear to my advis- 
ings. I believe that you may most righteously do a poor wronged 
lady a merited benefit, redeem your brother from the angry law, 
do no stain to your own most gracious person, and much please the 
absent duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have notice of 
this business." Isabel said, she had a spirit to do anything he 
desired, provided it was nothing wrong. " Virtue is bold, and 
never fearful," said the duke: and then he asked her, if she had 
ever heard of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier 
who was drowned at sea. " I have heard of the lady," said 
Isabel, " and good words went with her name." — " This lady," 
said the duke, "is the wife of Angelo; but her marriage dowry 
was on board the vessel in which her brother perished, and mark 
how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman ! for, beside the 
loss of a most noble and renowned brother, who in his love towards 
her was ever most kind and natural, in the wreck of her fortune 
she lost the affections of her husband, the well-seeming Angelo; who 
pretending to discover some dishonour in this honourable lady 
(though the true cause was the loss of her dowry) left her in her 
tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort. His unjust 
unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, has, 
like an impediment in the current, made it more unruly, and Mari- 
ana loves her cruel husband with the full continuance of her first 
affection." The duke then more plainly unfolded his plan. It was, 
that Isabel should go to lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to 
come to him as he desired at midnight; that by this means she would 
obtain the promised pardon; and that Mariana should go in her 
stead to the appointment, and pass herself upon Angelo in the dark 
for Isabel. " Nor, gentle daughter," said the feigned friar, " fear 
you to do this thing; Angelo is her husband, and to bring them 
thus together is no sin." Isabel being pleased with this project, 
departed to do as he directed her; and he went to apprise Mariana 
of their intention. He had before this time visited this unhappy 
lady in his assumed character, giving her religious instruction and 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 179 

friendly consolation, at which times he had learned her sad story 
from her own lips ; and now she, looking upon him as a holy man, 
readily consented to be directed by him in this undertaking. 

When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo, to the 
house of Mariana, where the duke had appointed her to meet him, 
he said, " Well met, and in good time; what is the news from this 
good deputy? " Isabel related the manner in which she had set- 
tled the affair. " Angelo," said she, " has a garden surrounded 
with a brick wall, on the western side of which is a vineyard, and 
to that vineyard is a gate." And then she showed to the duke and 
Mariana two keys that Angelo had given her; and she said, " This 
bigger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a little door which 
leads from the vineyard to the garden. There I have made my 
promise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and have got 
from him his word of assurance for my brother's life. I have 
taken a due and wary note of the place; and with whispering and 
most guilty diligence he showed me the way twice over." — " Are 
there no other tokens agreed upon between you, that Mariana must 
observe?" said the duke. "No, none," said Isabel, "only to go 
when it is dark. I have told him my time can be but short; for I 
have made him think a servant comes along with me, and that this 
servant is persuaded I come about my brother." The duke com- 
mended her discreet management, and she, turning to Mariana, said, 
" Little have you to say to Angelo, when you depart from him, but 
soft and low, Remember now my brother! " 

Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed place by 
Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she supposed, by this device 
preserved both her brother's life and her own honour. But that 
her brother's life was safe the duke was not well satisfied, and 
therefore at midnight he again repaired to the prison, and it was 
well for Claudio that he did so, else would Claudio have that night 
been beheaded; for soon after the duke entered the prison, an order 
came from the cruel deputy, commanding that Claudio should be 
beheaded, and his head sent to him by five o'clock in the morning. 



I bo 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 



But the duke persuaded the provost to put off the execution of 
Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, by sending him the head of a man 
who died that morning in the prison. And to prevail upon the 
provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provost suspected 
not to be anything more or greater than he seemed, showed the 
provost a letter written with the duke's hand, and sealed with his 
seal, which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must have 
some secret order from the absent duke, and therefore he consented 
to spare Claudio; and he cut off the dead man's head, and carried it 
to Angelo. 

Then the duke in his own name, wrote to Angelo a letter, saying, 
that certain accidents had put a stop to his journey, and that he 
should be in Vienna by the following morning, requiring Angelo to 
meet him at the entrance of the city, there to deliver up his authority; 
and the duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any of his 
subjects craved redress for injustice, they should exhibit their peti- 
tions in the street on his first entrance into the city. 

Early in the moring Isabel came to the prison, and the duke, who 
there awaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell 
her that Claudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel inquired if 
Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother, he said, " Angelo has 
released Claudio from this world. His head is off, and sent to 
the deputy." The much-grieved sister cried out, " O unhappy 
Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world, most wicked Angelo! " 
The seeming friar bid her take comfort, and when she was become 
a little calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect of the duke's 
return, and told her in what manner she should proceed in pre- 
ferring her complaint against Angelo; and he bade her not fear if 
the cause should seem to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabel 
sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, and gave her 
counsel in what manner she also should act. 

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his own royal 
robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful subjects, assembled to 
greet his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 181 

Angelo, who delivered up his authority in the proper form. And 
there came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and 
said, "Justice, most royal duke! I am the sister of one Claudio, 
who, for the seducing a young maid, was condemned to lose his 
head. I made my suit to lord Angelo for my brother's pardon. 
It were needless to tell your grace how I prayed and kneeled, how 
he repelled me, and how I replied; for this was of much length. 
The vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter. 
Angelo would not but by my yielding to his dishonourable love re- 
lease my brother; and after much debate within myself, my sisterly 
remorse overcame my virtue, and I did yield to him. But the next 
morning betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant for 
my poor brother's head ! " The duke affected to disbelieve her 
story; and Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, who had 
suffered by the due course of the law, had disordered her senses. 
And now another suitor approached, which was Mariana; and 
Mariana said, " Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven, 
and truth from breath, as there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, 
I am this man's wife, and, my good lord, the words of Isabel are 
false; for the night she says she was with Angelo, I passed that 
night with him in the garden-house. As this is true, let me in 
safety rise, or else for ever be fixed here a marble monument." 
Then did Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had said to friar 
Lodowick, that being the name the duke had assumed in his dis- 
guise. Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions in 
what they said, the duke intending that the innocence of Isabel 
should be plainly proved in that public manner before the whole city 
of Vienna ; but Angelo little thought that it was from such a cause 
that they thus differed in their story, and he hoped from their con- 
tradictory evidence to be able to clear himself from the accusa- 
tion of Isabel; and he said, assuming the look of offended inno- 
cence, " I did but smile till now; but, good my lord, my patience 
here is touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women are but 
the instruments of some greater one, who sets them on. Let me 



1 82 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

have way, my lord, to find this practice out." — " Ay, with all my 
heart," said the duke, " and punish them to the height of your 
pleasure. You, lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend him your 
pains to discover this abuse; the friar is sent for that set them on, 
and when he comes, do with your injuries as may seem best in any 
chastisement. I for a while will leave you, but stir not you, lord 
Angelo, till you have well determined upon this slander." The 
duke then went away, leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed 
judge and umpire in his own cause. But the duke was absent only 
while he threw off his royal robes and put on his friar's habit; and 
in that disguise again he presented himself before Angelo and 
Escalus : and the good old Escalus, who thought Angelo had been 
falsely accused, said to the supposed friar, " Come, sir, did you set 
these women on to slander lord Angelo?" He replied, "Where 
is the duke? It is he who should hear me speak." Escalus said, 
" The duke is in us, and we will hear you. Speak justly." — 
" Boldly at least," retorted the friar; and then he blamed the duke 
for leaving the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she had accused, 
and spoke so freely of many corrupt practices he had observed, 
while, as he said, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus 
threatened him with the torture for speaking words against the 
state, and for censuring the conduct of the duke, and ordered him 
to be taken away to prison. Then, to the amazement of all pres- 
ent, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw 
off his disguise, and they saw it was the duke himself. 

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her, " Come hither, 
Isabel. Your friar is now your prince, but with my habit I have 
not changed my heart. I am still devoted to your service." " O 
give me pardon," said Isabel, " that I, your vassal, have employed 
and troubled your unknown sovereignty." He answered that he 
had most need of forgiveness from her, for not having prevented 
the death of her brother — for not yet would he tell her that 
Claudio was living; meaning first to make further trial of her good- 
ness. Angelo now knew the duke had been a secret witness of his 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE 183 

bad deeds, and he said, " O my dread lord, I should be guiltier 
than my guiltiness, to think I can be undiscernible, when I perceive 
your grace, like power divine, has looked upon my actions. Then, 
good prince, no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial be my 
own confession. Immediate sentence and death is all the grace I 
beg." The duke replied, " Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We 
do condemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped to death ; 
and with like haste away with him; and for his possessions, 
Mariana, we do instate and widow you withal, to buy you a better 
husband." — " O my dear lord," said Mariana, " I crave no other, 
nor no better man: " and then on her knees, even as Isabel had 
begged the life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful hus- 
band beg the life of Angelo; and she said, "Gentle my liege, O 
good my lord ! Sweet Isabel, take my part ! Lend me your knees, 
and all my life to come I will lend you all my life, to do you serv- 
ice ! " The duke said, "Against all sense you importune her. 
Should Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy, her brother's ghost 
would break his paved bed, and take her hence in horror." Still 
Mariana said, " Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold up 
your hand, say nothing ! I will speak all. They say, best men are 
moulded out of faults, and for the most part become much the better 
for being a little bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel, will you 
not lend a knee?" The duke then said, "He dies for Claudio." 
But much pleased was the good duke, when his own Isabel, from 
whom he expected all gracious and honourable acts, kneeled down 
before him, and said, V Most bounteous sir, look, if it please you, 
on this man condemned, as if my brother lived. I partly think a 
due sincerity governed his deeds, till he did look on me. Since it 
is so, let him not die ! My brother had but justice, in that he did 
the thing for which he died." 

The duke, as the best reply he could make to this noble petitioner 
for her enemy's life, sending for Claudio from his prison-house, 
where he lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this lamented 
brother living; and he said to Isabel, " Give me your hand, Isabel; 



1 84 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

for your lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, and 
he shall be my brother too." By this time lord Angelo perceived 
he was safe ; and the duke, observing his eye to brighten up a little, 
said, "Well, Angelo, look that you love your wife; her worth has 
obtained your pardon : joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo ! 
I have confessed her, and know her virtue." Angelo remembered, 
when dressed in a little brief authority, how hard his heart had been, 
and felt how sweet is mercy. 

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and offered him- 
self again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble 
conduct had won her prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the 
veil, was free to marry; and the friendly offices, while hid under the 
disguise of a humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her, 
made her with grateful joy accept the honour he offered her; and 
when she became duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the vir- 
tuous Isabel worked such a complete reformation among the young 
ladies of that city, that from that time none ever fell into the trans- 
gression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. 
And the mercy-loving duke long reigned with his beloved Isabel, 
the happiest of husbands and of princes. 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 

EBASTIAN and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady 
of Messaline, were twins, and (which was accounted a great 
wonder) from their birth they so much resembled each other, 
that, but for the difference in their dress, they could not be known 
apart. They were both born in one hour, and in one hour they 
were both in danger of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on 
the coast of Illyria, as they were making a sea-voyage together. 
The ship, on board of which they were, split on a rock in a violent 
storm, and a very small number of the ship's company escaped with 
their lives. The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors 
that were saved, got to land in a small boat, and with them they 
brought Viola safe on shore, where she, poor lady, instead of re- 
joicing at her own deliverance, began to lament her brother's loss; 
but the captain comforted her with the assurance that he had seen 
her brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to a strong mast, 
on which, as long as he could see anything of him for the distance, 
he perceived him borne up above the waves. Viola was much con- 
soled by the hope this account gave her, and now considered how 
she was to dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from 
home; and she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria. 
" Ay, very well, madam," replied the captain, " for I was born not 
three hours' travel from this place." — " Who governs here? " said 
Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a 
duke noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard 
her father speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. " And 
he is so now," said the captain; " or was so very lately, for, but 
a month ago, I went from here, and then it was the general talk (as 
you know what great ones do, the people will prattle of) that Orsino 
sought the love of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a 

:8 S 



1 86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

count who died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection 
of her brother, who shortly after died also; and for the love of this 
dear brother, they say, she has abjured the sight and company of 
men." Viola, who was herself in such a sad affliction for her 
brother's loss, wished she could live with this lady, who so tenderly 
mourned a brother's death. She asked the captain if he could in- 
troduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this lady. 
But he replied, this would be a hard thing to accomplish, because 
the Lady Olivia would admit no person into her house since her 
brother's death, not even the duke himself. Then Viola formed 
another project in her mind, which was, in a man's habit, to serve 
the duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady 
to put on male attire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and un- 
protected state of Viola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, 
alone, and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse. 

She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he 
showed a friendly concern for her welfare, entrusted him with her 
design, and he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him 
money, and directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, 
ordering her clothes to be made of the same colour and in the same 
fashion her brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was 
dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like her brother 
that some strange errors happened by means of their being mis- 
taken for each other; for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was 
also saved. 

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this 
pretty lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got 
her presented to Orsino under the feigned name of Cesario. The 
duke was wonderfully pleased with the address and graceful deport- 
ment of this handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, 
that being the office Viola wished to obtain: and she so well fulfilled 
the duties of her new station, and showed such a ready observance 
and faithful attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most 
favoured attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the whole history 



TWELFTH NIGHT 187 

of his love for the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and 
unsuccessful suit he had made to one who, rejecting his long services, 
and despising his person, refused to admit him to her presence; and 
for the love of this lady who had so unkindly treated him, the noble 
Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field and all manly exercises in 
which he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening 
to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate 
love-songs; and neglecting the company of the wise and learned 
lords with whom he used to associate, he was now all day long 
conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his 
grave courtiers thought Cesario was for their once noble master, 
the great duke Orsino. 

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants 
of handsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sor- 
row, for all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she pres- 
ently perceived she suffered for the love of him ; and much it moved 
her wonder, that Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless 
lord and master, whom she thought no one could behold without the 
deepest admiration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino, that 
it was a pity he should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy 
qualities; and she said, " If a lady were to love you, my lord, as 
yon love Olivia (and perhaps there may be one who does), if you 
could not love her in return, would you not tell her that you could 
not love, and must she not be content with this answer? " But 
Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied that it was 
possible for any woman to love as he did. He said, no woman's 
heart was big enough to hold so much love, and therefore it was 
unfair to compare the love of any lady for him, to his love for 
Olivia. Now, though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke's 
opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite true, for 
she thought her heart had full as much love in it as Orsino's had; 
and she said, " Ah, but I know, my lord." — " What do you know, 
Cesario? " said Orsino. " Too well I know," replied Viola, " what 
love women may owe to men. They are as true of heart as we are. 



1 88 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

My father had a daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a 
woman, should love your lordship." — " And what is her history? " 
said Orsino. " A blank, my lord," replied Viola: " she never told 
her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her 
damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow 
melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief." 
The duke inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this question 
Viola returned an evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the 
story, to speak words expressive of the secret love and silent grief 
she suffered for Orsino. 

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke 
had sent to Olivia, and he said, " So please you, my lord, I might 
not be admitted to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you 
this answer: Until seven years hence, the element itself shall not 
behold her face; but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering 
her chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her dead 
brother." On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, " O she that has 
a heart of this line frame, to pay this debt of love to a dead brother, 
how will she love, when the rich golden shaft has touched her 
heart! " And then he said to Viola, " You know, Cesario, I have 
told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to 
Olivia's house. Be not denied access; stand at her doors, and tell 
her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you have audience." — 
" And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then? " said Viola. " O 
then;" replied Orsino, "unfold to her the passion of my love. 
Make a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well be- 
come you to act my woes, for she will attend more to you than to 
one of graver aspect." 

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this 
courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she 
wished to marry: but having undertaken the affair, she performed 
it with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door 
who insisted upon being admitted to her presence. " I told him," 
said the servant, " that you were sick: he said he knew you were, 



TWELFTH NIGHT 189 

and therefore he came to speak with you. I told him that you 
were asleep : he seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, and 
said, that therefore he must speak with you. What is to be said 
to him, lady? for he seems fortified against all denial, and will 
speak with you, whether you will or no." Olivia, curious to see 
who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he might be 
admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said she would 
once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that he came 
from the duke, by his importunity. Viola, entering, put on the 
most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier 
language of great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady, " Most 
radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you 
are the lady of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my 
speech upon another; for besides that it is excellently well penned, 
I have taken great pains to learn it." — " Whence come you, sir? " 
said Olivia. " I can say little more than I have studied," replied 
Viola; " and that question is out of my part." — " Are you a come- 
dian? " said Olivia. "No," replied Viola; "and yet I am not 
that which I play; " meaning that she, being a woman, feigned her- 
self to be a man. And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady 
of the house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola, having more 
curiosity to see her rival's features, than haste to deliver her master's 
message, said, " Good madam, let me see your face." With this 
bold request Olivia was not averse to comply; for this haughty 
beauty, whom the duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first 
sight conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario. 
When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, " Have you any 
commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face? " 
And then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long 
years, she drew aside her veil, saying, " But I will draw the cur- 
tain and show the picture. Is it not well done? " Viola replied, 
" It is beauty truly mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks is by 
Nature's own cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady 
living, if you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the 



i 9 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

world no copy." — " O, sir," replied Olivia, " I will not be so cruel. 
The world may have an inventory of my beauty. As, item, two 
lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; one 
neck; one chin; and so forth. Were you sent here to praise me? " 
Viola replied, " I see what you are: you are too proud, but you are 
fair. My lord and master loves you. O such a love could but 
be recompensed, though you were crowned the queen of beauty: 
for Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears, with groans 
that thunder love, and sighs of fire." — " Your lord," said Olivia, 
"knows well my mind. I cannot love him; yet I doubt not he 
is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh 
and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, 
and valiant; yet I cannot love him, he might have taken his answer 
long ago." — " If I did love you as my master does," said Viola, 
" I would make me a, willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your 
name, I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in 
the dead of the night; your name should sound among the hills, 
and I would make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out 
Olivia. O you should not rest between the elements of earth and 
air, but you should pity me." — " You might do much," said Olivia: 
"what is your parentage?" Viola replied, "Above my fortunes, 
yet my state is well. I am a gentleman." Olivia now reluctantly 
dismissed Viola, saying, " Go to your master, and tell him, I can- 
not love him. Let him send no more, unless perchance you come 
again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola departed, bidding the 
lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was gone 
Olivia repeated the words, Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. 
I am a gentleman. And she said aloud, " I will be sworn he is; 
his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he is 
a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was the duke ; and 
perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed 
herself for her sudden love: but the gentle blame which people lay 
upon their own faults has no deep root; and presently the noble 
lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and 



TWELFTH NIGHT 191 

those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which 
is the chief ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to 
court the love of young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with 
a diamond ring, under the pretence that he had left it with her 
as a present from Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making 
Cesario a present of the ring, she should give him some intimation 
of her design; and truly it did make Viola suspect; for knowing that 
Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that Olivia's 
looks and manner were expressive of admiration, and she presently 
guessed her master's mistress had fallen in love with her. " Alas," 
said she, " the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I 
see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs 
for me as I do for Orsino." 

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the 
ill success of the negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, 
that the duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke per- 
sisted in hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to 
persuade her to show some pity, and therefore he bade him he should 
go to her again the next day. In the mean time, to pass away the 
tedious interval, he commanded a song which he loved to be sung; 
and he said, " My good Cesario, when I heard that song last night, 
methought it did relieve my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it 
is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters when they sit in the 
sun, and the young maids that weave their thread with bone, chant 
this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the innocence of 
love in the old times." 

SONG 

Come away, come away, Death, 

And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath, 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! 
My part of death no one so true did share it. 



192 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 

On my black coffin let there be strewn ; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there! 

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in 
such true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she 
bore testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. 
Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, " My 
life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked 
upon some face that it loves: has it not, boy?" — "A little, with 
your leave," replied Viola. " And what kind of woman, and of 
what age is she? " said Orsino. " Of your age and of your com- 
plexion, my lord," said Viola; which made the duke smile to hear 
this fair young boy loved a woman so much older than himself, and 
of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, and 
not a woman like him. 

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty 
in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies 
delight to converse with handsome young messengers ; and the instant 
Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's 
page was shown into Olivia's apartment with great respect; and 
when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in 
her lord's behalf, this lady said, " I desired you never to speak 
of him again; but if you would undertake another suit, I had rather 
hear you solicit, than music from the spheres." This was pretty 
plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, 
and openly confessed her love; and when she saw displeasure with 
perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, " O what a deal of 
scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip ! Cesario, 
by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and by truth, I 
love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor 
reason to conceal my passion." But in vain the lady wooed; Viola 



TWELFTH NIGHT 193 

hastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to 
plead Orsino's love; and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond 
solicitation was, a declaration of a resolution Never to love any 
woman. 

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon 
her valour. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had 
learned how that lady had favoured the duke's messenger, chal- 
lenged him to fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, 
though she carried a manlike outside, had a true woman's heart, 
and feared to look on her own sword? 

When she saw her formidable rival advancing towards her with 
his sword drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a 
woman; but she was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame 
of such a discovery, by a stranger that was passing by, who made 
up to them, and as if he had been long known to her, and were her 
dearest friend, said to her opponent, " If this young gentleman 
has done offence, I will take the fault on me; and if you offend him, 
I will for his sake defy you." Before Viola had time to thank 
him for his protection, or to inquire the reason of this kind inter- 
ference, her new friend met with an enemy where his bravery was 
of no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up in that instant, 
apprehended the stranger in the duke's name, to answer for an 
offence he had committed some years before : and he said to Viola, 
"This comes with seeking you:" and then he asked her for a 
purse, saying, " Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, 
and it grieves me much more for what I cannot do for you, than 
for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort." 
His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew 
him not, nor had ever received a purse from him ; but for the 
kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a small sum of 
money, being nearly the whole she possessed. And now the 
stranger spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and 
unkindness. He said, " This youth, whom you see here, I snatched 
from the j-aws of death, and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, 



i 9 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

and have fallen into this danger." But the officers cared little for 
hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and they hurried 
him off saying, "What is that to us?" And as he was carried 
away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching the 
supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long as he was 
within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian, though 
the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an explana- 
tion, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from 
her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes 
that it was her brother whose life this man said he had preserved. 
And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, 
was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, 
almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which 
he had fastened himself in the storm. Antonio conceived such a 
friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him whither- 
soever he went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit 
Orsino's court, Antonio, rather than part from him came to Illyria, 
though he knew, if his person should be known there, his life would 
be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded 
the duke Orsino's nephew. This was the offence for which he was 
now made a prisoner. 

Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours be- 
fore Antonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, 
desiring him to use it freely if he saw anything he wished to pur- 
chase, telling him he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to 
view the town; but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, 
Antonio had ventured out to look for him, and Viola being dressed 
the same, and in face so exactly resembling her brother, Antonio 
drew his sword (as he thought) in defence of the youth he had 
saved, and when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and 
denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude. 

Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to 
fight, slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long 
gone, when her adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her 



TWELFTH NIGHT 195 

brother Sebastian, who happened to arrive at this place, and he 
said, " Now, sir, have I met with you again? There's for you; " 
and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no coward; he returned the 
blow with interest, and drew his sword. 

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the 
house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to 
come into her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he 
had met with. Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the 
courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he 
went very willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find 
Cesario (as she thought him) become more sensible of her atten- 
tions; for though their features were exactly the same, there was 
none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his face, which she 
had complained of when she told her love to Cesario. 

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished 
on him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered 
how it had come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia 
was not in her right senses ; but perceiving that she was mistress of 
a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern 
her family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him 
she appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well approved 
of the courtship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humour, 
and fearing he might change his mind, proposed that, as she had 
a priest in the house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian 
assented to this proposal; and when the marriage ceremony was 
over, he left his lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his 
friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met with. In the 
meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia : and at the moment he ar- 
rived before Olivia's house, the officers of justice brought their 
prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her 
master; and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to 
be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he had rescued this 
youth from the perils of the sea; and after fully relating all the 
kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint 



196 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

with saying, that for three months, both day and night, this un- 
grateful youth had been with him. But now the lady Olivia com- 
ing forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend to 
Antonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the countess: now 
Heaven walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are mad- 
ness. Three months has this youth attended on me: " and then he 
ordered Antonio to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly countess 
soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude 
as Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear Olivia speak 
were words of kindness to Cesario: and when he found his page 
had obtained this high place in Olivia's favour, he threatened him 
with all the terrors of his just revenge; and as he was going to 
depart, he called Viola to follow him, saying, " Come, boy, with 
me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief." Though it seemed in 
his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet 
her love made her no longer a coward, and she said she would 
most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia 
would not so lose her husband, and she cried, " Where goes my 
Cesario? " Viola replied, " After him I love more than my life." 
Olivia, however, prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming 
that Cesario was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared 
that not two hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia 
to this young man. In vain Viola protested she was not married 
to Olivia ; the evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino be- 
lieve that his page had robbed him of the treasure he prized above 
his life. But thinking that it was past recall, he was bidding fare- 
well to his faithless mistress, and the young dissembler, her husband, 
as he called Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again, 
when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! for another 
Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This new 
Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia; and when their 
wonder had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, 
the same voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister began to 
question each other; for Viola could scarce be persuaded that her 



TWELFTH NIGHT 197 

brother was living, and Sebastian knew not how to account for the 
sister he supposed drowned being found in the habit of a young 
man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she was indeed Viola, 
and his sister, under that disguise. 

When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness 
between this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed 
at the lady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling 
in love with a woman; and Olivia showed no dislike to her ex- 
change, when she found she had wedded the brother instead of the 
sister. 

The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by this marriage of 
Olivia, and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish 
away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite, 
young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola 
with great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he 
had always thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look 
very beautiful in a woman's attire; and then he remembered how 
often she had said she loved him, which at the time seemed only 
the dutiful expressions of a faithful page; but now he guessed that 
something more was meant, for many of her pretty sayings, which 
were like riddles to him, came now into his mind, and he no sooner 
remembered all these things than he resolved to make Viola his 
wife; and he said to her (he still could not help calling her Cesario 
and boy), " Boy, you have said to me a thousand times that you 
should never love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service 
you have done for me so much beneath your soft and tender breed- 
ing, and since you have called me master so long, you shall now be 
your master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess." 

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she 
had so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her 
house, and offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married 
her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the 
remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin 
brother and sister were both wedded on the same day : the storm 



198 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

and shipwreck, which had separated them, being the means of bring- 
ing to pass their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of 
Orsino, the duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich 
and noble countess, the lady Olivia. 



TIMON OF ATHENS 

TIMON, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely 
fortune, affected a humour of liberality which knew no 
limits. His almost infinite wealth could not flow in so 
fast, but he poured it out faster upon all sorts and degrees of people. 
Not the poor only tasted of his bounty, but great lords did not 
disdain to rank themselves among his dependants and followers. 
His table was resorted to by all the luxurious feasters, and his house 
was open to all comers and goers at Athens. His large wealth 
combined with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all hearts to 
his love; men of all minds and dispositions tendered their services to 
lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose face reflects as in 
a mirror the present humour of his patron, to the rough and un- 
bending cynic, who affecting a contempt of men's persons, and an 
indifference to worldly things, yet could not stand out against the 
gracious manners and munificent soul of lord Timon, but would 
come (against his nature) to partake of his royal entertainments, 
and return most rich in his own estimation if he had received a nod 
or a salutation from Timon. 

If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory 
introduction to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it 
to lord Timon, and the poem was sure of sale, besides a present 
purse from the patron, and daily access to his house and table. If 
a painter had a picture to dispose of, he had only to take it to lord 
Timon, and pretend to consult his taste as to the merits of it; noth- 
ing more was wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. 
If a jeweller had a stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which 
for their costliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon's house was a 
ready mart always open, where they might get off their wares or 
their jewellery at any price, and the good-natured lord would thank 

199 



200 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

them into the bargain, as if they had done him a piece of courtesy 
in letting him have the refusal of such precious commodities. So 
that by this means his house was thronged with superfluous pur- 
chases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp ; and 
his person was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd of these 
idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, 
needy courtiers, and expectants, who continually filled his lobbies, 
raining their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to 
him with adulation as to a God, making sacred the very stirrup by 
which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank the 
free air but through his permission and bounty. 

Some of these daily dependants were young men of birth, who 
(their means not answering to their extravagance) had been put in 
prison by creditors, and redeemed thence by lord Timon; these 
young prodigals thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if by 
common sympathy he were necessarily endeared to all such spend- 
thrifts and loose livers, who, not being able to follow him in his 
wealth, found it easier to copy him in prodigality and copious spend- 
ing of what was their own. One of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, 
for whose debts, unjustly contracted, Timon but lately had paid 
down the sum of five talents. 

But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were 
more conspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. 
It was fortunate for these men if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a 
horse, or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing 
so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning 
with the compliments of the giver for lord Timon's acceptance, 
and apologies for the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, 
or whatever it might be, did not fail to produce from Timon's 
bounty, who would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs 
or horses, certainly presents of far richer worth, as these pretended 
donors knew well enough, and that their false presents were but the 
putting out of so much money at large and speedy interest. In this 
way lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a present of four milk- 



TIMON OF ATHENS 201 

white horses, trapped in silver, which this cunning lord had observed 
Timon upon some occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus, 
had bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free gift a 
brace of greyhounds, whose make and fleetness Timon had been 
heard to admire ; these presents the easy-hearted lord accepted with- 
out suspicion of the dishonest views of the presenters ; and the givers 
of course were rewarded with some rich return, a diamond or some 
jewel of twenty times the value of their false and mercenary do- 
nation. 

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct 
way, and with gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous 
Timon was too blind to see, would affect to admire and praise 
something that Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or 
some late purchase, which was sure to draw from this yielding and 
soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing commended, for no service in 
the world done for it but the easy expense of a little cheap and 
obvious flattery. In this way Timon but the other day had given 
to one of these mean lords the bay courser which he himself rode 
upon, because his lordship had been pleased to say that it was a 
handsome beast and went well ; and Timon knew that no man ever 
justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For lord Timon 
weighed his friends' affection with his own, and so fond was he of 
bestowing, that he could have dealt kingdoms to these supposed 
friends, and never have been weary. 

Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these wicked flatterers; 
he could do noble and praiseworthy actions; and when a servant of 
his once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope 
to obtain her by reason that in wealth and rank the maid was so 
far above him, lord Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three 
Athenian talents, to make his fortune equal with the dowry which 
the father of the young maid demanded of him who should be her 
husband. But for the most part, knaves and parasites had the 
command of his fortune, false friends whom he did not know to 
be such, but, because they flocked around his person, he thought 



202 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

they must needs love him; and because they smiled and flattered him, 
he thought surely that his conduct was approved by all the wise and 
good. And when he was feasting in the midst of all these flat- 
terers and mock friends, when they were eating him up, and drain- 
ing his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest wines drunk to his 
health and prosperity, he could not perceive the difference of a 
friend from a flatterer, but to his deluded eyes (made proud with 
the sight) it seemed a precious comfort to have so many like brothers 
commanding one another's fortunes (though it was his own fortune 
which paid all the costs), and with joy they would run over at the 
spectacle of such, as it appeared to him, truly festive and fraternal 
meeting. 

But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured 
out his bounty, as if Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his 
steward; while thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless 
of expense that he would neither inquire how he could maintain it, 
nor cease his wild flow of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, 
must needs melt away before a prodigality which knew no limits. 
But who should tell him so? his flatterers? they had an interest 
in shutting his eyes. In vain did his honest steward Flavius try 
to represent to him his condition, laying his accounts before him, 
begging of him, praying of him, with an importunity that on any 
other occasion would have been unmannerly in a servant, beseech- 
ing him with tears to look into the state of his affairs. Timon 
would still put him off, and turn the discourse to something else; 
for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as riches turned to poverty, 
nothing is so unwilling to believe its situation, nothing so incredulous 
to its own true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse. Often 
had this good steward, this honest creature, when all the rooms of 
Timon's great house have been choked up with riotous feeders at 
his master's cost, when the floors have wept with drunken spilling 
of wine, and every apartment has blazed with lights and resounded 
with music and feasting, often had he retired by himself to some 
solitary spot, and wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful 



TIMON OF ATHENS 203 

casks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, and to think, when 
the means were gone which brought him praises from all sorts of 
people, how quickly the breath would be gone of which the praise 
was made; praises won in feasting would be lost in fasting, and at 
one cloud of winter-showers these flies would disappear. 

But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no 
longer to the representations of this faithful steward. Money must 
be had; and when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that 
purpose, Flavius informed him, what he had in vain endeavoured 
at several times before to make him listen to, that most of his land 
was already sold or forfeited, and that all he possessed at present 
was not enough to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with 
wonder at this presentation, Timon hastily replied, " My lands 
extend from Athens to Lacedaemon." " O my good lord," said 
Flavius, "the world is but a world, and has bounds; were it all 
yours to give in a breath, how quickly were it gone ! " 

Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty had yet come 
from him, that if he had given his wealth away unwisely, it had not 
been bestowed to feed his vices, but to cherish his friends; and he 
bade the kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take comfort 
in the assurance that his master could never lack means, while he 
had so many noble friends; and this infatuated lord persuaded him- 
self that he had nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every 
man's fortune (that had ever tasted his bounty) in this extremity, 
as freely as his own. Then with a cheerful look, as if confident of 
the trial, he severally despatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords 
Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts 
in past times without measure or moderation; and to Ventidius, 
whom he had lately released out of prison by paying his debts, and 
who, by the death of his father, was now come into the possession 
of an ample fortune, and well enabled to requite Timon's courtesy : 
to request of Ventidius the return of those five talents which he had 
paid for him, and of each of those noble lords the loan of fifty 
talents; nothing doubting that their gratitude would supply his 



204 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

wants (if he needed it) to the amount of five hundred times fifty 
talents. 

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been 
dreaming overnight of a silver bason and cup, and when Timon's 
servant was announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this 
was surely a making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent him 
such a present: but when he understood the truth of the matter, 
and that Timon wanted money, the quality of his faint and watery 
friendship showed itself, for with many protestations he vowed to 
the servant that he had long foreseen the ruin of his master's affairs, 
and many a time had he come to dinner to tell him of it, and had 
come again to supper to try to persuade him to spend less, but he 
would take no counsel nor warning by his coming : and true it was 
that he had been a constant attender (as he said) at Timon's feasts, 
as he had in greater things tasted his bounty ; but that he ever came 
with that intent, or gave good counsel or reproof to Timon, was a 
base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed up with meanly offer- 
ing the servant a bribe, to go home to his master and tell him that 
he had not found Lucullus at home. 

As little success had the messenger who was sent to lord Lucius. 
This lying lord, who was full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost 
to bursting with Timon's costly presents, when he found the wind 
changed, and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at 
first could hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected 
great regret that he should not have it in his power to serve lord 
Timon, for unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had 
made a great purchase the day before, which had quite disfurnished 
him of the means at present, the more beast he, he recalled himself, 
to put it out of his power to serve so good a friend ; and he counted 
it one of his greatest afflictions that his ability should fail him to 
pleasure such an honourable gentleman. 

Who can call any man friend that dips in the same dish with 
him? just of this metal is every flatterer. In the recollection of 
everybody Timon had been a father to this Lucius, had kept up his 



TIMON OF ATHENS 205 

credit with his purse; Timon's money had gone to pay the wages 
of his servants, to pay the hire of the labourers who had sweat to 
build the fine houses which Lucius's pride had made necessary to 
him : yet, oh ! the monster which man makes himself when he proves 
ungrateful! this Lucius now denied to Timon a sum, which, in re- 
spect of what Timon had bestowed on him, was less than charitable 
men afford to beggars. 

Sempronius, and every one of these mercenary lords to whom 
Timon applied in their turn, returned the same evasive answer or 
direct denial; even Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, 
refused to assist him with the loan of those five talents which Timon 
had not lent but generously given him in his distress. 

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as he had been 
courted and resorted to in his riches. Now the same tongues which 
had been loudest in his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, 
and open handed, were not ashamed to censure that very bounty as 
folly, that liberality as profuseness, though it had shown itself folly 
in nothing so truly as in the selection of such unworthy creatures 
as themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's princely mansion 
forsaken, and become a shunned and hated place, a place for men to 
pass by, not a place, as formerly, where every passenger must stop 
and taste of his wine and good cheer; now, instead of being thronged 
with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was beset with impatient and 
clamorous creditors, usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in 
their demands, pleading bonds, interest, mortgages ; iron-hearted 
men that would take no denial nor putting off, that Timon's house 
was now his jail, which he could not pass, nor go in nor out for 
them; one demanding his due of fifty talents, another bringing in 
a bill of five thousand crowns, which if he would tell out his blood by 
drops, and pay them so, he had not enough in his body to discharge, 
drop by drop. 

In this desperate and irremediable state (as it seemed) of his 
affairs, the eyes of all men were suddenly surprised at a new and 
incredible lustre which this setting sun put forth. Once more lord 



206 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Timon proclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests, 
lords, ladies, all that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lord 
Lucius and Lucullus came, Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. 
Who more sorry now than these fawning wretches, when they 
found (as they thought) that lord Timon's poverty was all pretence, 
and had been only put on to make trial of their loves, to think that 
they should not have seen through the artifice at the time, and have 
had the cheap credit of obliging his lordship? yet who more glad to 
find the fountain of that noble bounty, which they had thought dried 
up, still fresh and running? They came dissembling, protesting, 
expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that when his lordship sent 
to them, they should have been so unfortunate as to want the 
present means to oblige so honourable a friend. But Timon begged 
them not to give such trifles a thought, for he had altogether for- 
gotten it. And these base fawning lords, though they had denied 
him money in his adversity, yet could not refuse their presence at 
this new blaze of his returning prosperity. For the swallow follows 
not summer more willingly than men of these dispositions follow the 
good fortunes of the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than 
these shrink from the first appearance of a reverse; such summer 
birds are men. But now with music and state the banquet of 
smoking dishes was served up ; and when the guests had a little done 
admiring whence the bankrupt Timon could find means to furnish 
so costly a feast, some doubting whether the scene which they saw 
was real, as scarce trusting their own eyes ; at a signal given, the 
dishes were uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared: instead of those 
varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected, that Timon's 
epicurean table in past times had so liberally presented, now ap- 
peared under the covers of these dishes a preparation more suitable 
to Timon's poverty, nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm water, 
fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose professions were in- 
deed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery as the water 
with which Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them, 
"Uncover, dogs, and lap;" and before they could recover their 



TIMON OF ATHENS 207 

surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they might have enough, 
and throwing dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling out, 
lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid con- 
fusion, Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they were, 
" smooth smiling parasites, destroyers under the mask of courtesy, 
affable wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, feast-friends, time- 
flies." They, crowding out to avoid him, left the house more will- 
ingly than they had entered it; some losing their gowns and caps, 
and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the 
presence of such a mad lord, and from the ridicule of his mock 
banquet. 

This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he 
took farewell of Athens and the society of men; for, after that, 
he betook himself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated 
city and upon all mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city 
might sink, and the houses fall upon their owners, wishing all 
plagues which infest humanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, 
might fasten upon its inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound 
all Athenians, both young and old, high arid low; so wishing, he 
went to the woods, where he said he should find the unkindest beast 
much kinder than mankind. He stripped himself naked, that he 
might retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived 
solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the wild roots, and drink- 
ing water, flying from the face of his kind, and choosing rather to 
herd with the wild beasts, as more harmless and friendly than man. 

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord Timon the de- 
light of mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater ! 
Where were his flatterers now? Where were his attendants and 
retinue? Would the bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his 
chamberlain, to put his shirt on warm? Would those stiff trees that 
had outlived the eagle, turn young and airy pages to him, to skip 
on his errands when he bade them? Would the cool brook, when 
it was iced with winter, administer to him his warm broths and 
caudles when sick of an overnight's surfeit? Or would the crea- 



208 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

tures that lived in those wild woods come and lick his hand and 
flatter him? 

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, his poor suste- 
nance, his spade struck against something heavy, which proved to 
be gold, a great heap which some miser had probably buried in a 
time of alarm, thinking to have come again, and taken it from its 
prison, but died before the opportunity had arrived, without making 
any man privy to the concealment; so it lay, doing neither good nor 
harm, in the bowels of the earth, its mother, as if it had never 
come from thence, till the accidental striking of Timon's spade 
against it once more brought it to light. 

Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon had retained his 
old mind, was enough to have purchased him friends and flatterers 
again; but Timon was sick of the false world, and the sight of 
gold was poisonous to his eyes ; and he would have restored it to the 
earth, but that, thinking of the infinite calamities which by means 
of gold happen to mankind, how the lucre of it causes robberies, 
oppression, injustice, briberies, violence, and murder, among men, 
he had a pleasure in imagining (such a rooted hatred did he bear 
to his species) that out of this heap, which in digging he had dis- 
covered, might arise some mischief to plague mankind. And some 
soldiers passing through the woods near to his cave at that instant, 
which proved to be a part of the troops of the Athenian captain 
Alcibiades, who upon some disgust taken against the senators of 
Athens (the Athenians were ever noted to be a thankless and un- 
grateful people, giving disgust to their generals and best friends), 
was marching at the head of the same triumphant army which he 
had formerly headed in their defence, to war against them; Timon, 
who liked their business well, bestowed upon their captain the gold 
to pay his soldiers, requiring no other service from him, than that 
he should with his conquering army lay Athens level with the ground, 
and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants; not sparing the old men 
for their white beards, for (he said) they were usurers, nor the 
young children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those (he said) 



TIMON OF ATHENS 209 

would live, if they grew up, to be traitors ; but to steel his eyes and 
ears against any sights or sounds that might awaken compassion; and 
not to let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him from 
making one universal massacre of the city, but to confound them 
all in his conquest; and when he had conquered, he prayed that the 
gods would confound him also, the conqueror: so thoroughly did 
Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind. 

While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life more brutal 
than human, he was suddenly surprised one day with the appearance 
of a man standing in an admiring posture at the door of his cave. 
It was Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous affection 
to his master had led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling, and 
to offer his services ; and the first sight of his master, the once noble 
Timon, in that abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the 
manner of a beast among beasts, looking like his own sad ruins and 
a monument of decay, so affected this good servant, that he stood 
speechless, wrapped up in horror, and confounded. And when he 
found utterance at last to his words, they were so choked with tears, 
that Timon had much ado to know him again, or to make out who 
it was that had come (so contrary to the experience he had had of 
mankind) to offer him service in extremity. And being in the form 
and shape of a man, he suspected him for a traitor, and his tears for 
false; but the good servant by so many tokens confirmed the truth of 
his fidelity, and made it clear that nothing but love and zealous duty 
to his once dear master had brought him there, that Timon was 
forced to confess that the world contained one honest man; yet, 
being in the shape and form of a man, he could not look upon his 
man's face without abhorrence, or hear words uttered from 
his man's lips without loathing; and this singly honest man was 
forced to depart, because he was a man, and because, with a heart 
more gentle and compassionate than is usual to man, he bore man's 
detested form and outward feature. 

But greater visitants than a poor steward were about to interrupt 
the savage quiet of Timon's solitude. For now the day was come 



210 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

when the ungrateful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice 
which they had done to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an 
incensed wild boar, was raging at the walls of their city, and with 
his hot siege threatened to lay fair Athens in the dust. And now 
the memory of lord Timon's former prowess and military conduct 
came fresh into their forgetful minds, for Timon had been their 
general in past times, and a valiant and expert soldier, who alone 
of all the Athenians was deemed able to cope with a besieging army 
such as then threatened them, or to drive back the furious ap- 
proaches of Alcibiades. 

A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emergency to wait 
upon Timon. To him they come in their extremity, to whom, when 
he was in extremity, they had shown but small regard; as if they 
presumed upon his gratitude whom they had disobliged, and had 
derived a claim to his courtesy from their own most discourteous 
and unpiteous treatment. 

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with tears, to return 
and save that city, from which their ingratitude had so lately driven 
him; now they offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for 
past injuries, and public honours, and the public love; their persons, 
lives, and fortunes, to be at his disposal, if he will but come back 
and save them. But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was 
no longer lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour, 
their defence in war, their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed 
his countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and 
slew her old men and her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he 
told them; and that there was not a knife in the unruly camp which 
he did not prize above the reverendest throat in Athens. 

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping disappointed 
senators; only at parting he bade them commend him to his country- 
men, and tell them, that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, 
and to prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, there 
was yet a way left, which he would teach them, for he had yet so 
much affection left for his dear countrymen as to be willing to 



TIMON OF ATHENS 211 

do them a kindness before his death. These words a little re- 
vived the senators, who hoped that his kindness for their city was 
returning. Then Timon told them that he had a tree, which grew 
near his cave, which he should shortly have occasion to cut down, 
and he invited all his friends in Athens, high or low, of what degree 
soever, who wished to shun affliction, to come and take a taste of 
his tree before he cut it down; meaning, that they might come and 
hang themselves on it, and escape affliction that way. 

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble bounties, which 
Timon showed to mankind, and this the last sight of him which his 
countrymen had : for not many days after, a poor soldier, passing 
by the sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the woods 
which Timon frequented, found a tomb on the verge of the sea, 
with an inscription upon it, purporting that it was the grave of 
Timon the man-hater, who " While he lived, did hate all living 
men, and dying wished a plague might consume all caitiffs left! " 

Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste 
of life and the loathing he had for mankind brought Timon to his 
conclusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his 
epitaph, and the consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, a 
hater of mankind: and some there were who fancied a conceit in 
the very choice which he had made of the sea-beach for his place of 
burial, where the vast sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as 
in contempt of the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and 
deceitful mankind. 



ROMEO AND JULIET 



I 



~^HE two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets 
and the Montagues. There had been an old quarrel be- 
tween these families, which was grown to such a height, 
and so deadly was the enmity between them, that it extended to the 
remotest kindred, to the followers and retainers of both sides, in- 
somuch that a servant of the house of Montague could not meet a 
servant of the house of Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter with a 
Montague by chance, but fierce words and sometimes bloodshed 
ensued; and frequent were the brawls from such accidental meet- 
ings, which disturbed the happy quiet of Verona's streets. 

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies 
and many noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of 
Verona were present, and all comers were made welcome if they 
were not of the house of Montague. At this feast of Capulets, 
Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the old lord Montague, was 
present; and though it was dangerous for a Montague to be seen 
in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the 
young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise of a mask, that 
he might see his Rosaline, and seeing her, compare her with some 
choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would make him think 
his swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's words; 
nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded to go. 
For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost 
his sleep for love, and fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosa- 
line, who disdained him, and never requited his love, with the least 
show of courtesy or affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his 
friend of this love by showing him diversity of ladies and company. 
To this feast of Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their 
friend Mercutio went masked. Old Capulet bid them welcome, 

212 

\ 



ROMEO AND JULIET 213 

and told them that ladies who had their toes unplagued with corns 
would dance with them. And the old man was light hearted and 
merry, and said that he had worn a mask when he was young, and 
could have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear. And they 
fell to dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with the exceeding 
beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to him to teach 
the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by night like a 
rich jewel worn by a black-amoor; beauty too rich for use, too dear 
for earth ! like a snowy dove trooping with crows (he said) , so richly 
did her beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her com- 
panions. While he uttered these praises, he was overheard "By 
Tybalt, a nephew of lord Capulet, who knew him by his voice to be 
Romeo. And this Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, 
could not endure that a Montague should come under cover of 
a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) at their solemnities. And 
he stormed and raged exceedingly, and would have struck young 
Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old lord Capulet, would not suffer 
him to do any injury at that time, both out of respect to his guests, 
and because Romeo had borne himself like a gentleman, and all 
tongues in Verona bragged of him to be a virtuous and well-governed 
youth. Tybalt, forced to be patient against his will, restrained him- 
self, but swore that this vile Montague should at another time dearly 
pay for his intrusion. 

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the 
lady stood; and under favour of his masking habit, which might 
seem to excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest man- 
ner to take her by the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he pro- 
faned by touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it 
for atonement. " Good pilgrim," answered the lady, " your de- 
votion shows by far too mannerly and too courtly : saints have hands, 
which pilgrims may touch, but kiss not." — " Have not saints lips, 
and pilgrims too? " said Romeo. " Ay," said the lady, " lips which 
they must use in prayer." — " O then, my dear saint," said Romeo, 
" hear my prayer, and grant it, lest I despair." In such like al- 



2i 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

lusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the lady was 
called away to her mother. And Romeo inquiring who her mother 
was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much 
struck with, was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord 
Capulet, the great enemy of the Montagues; and that he had un- 
knowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it 
could not dissuade him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, when 
she found that the gentleman that she had been talking with was 
Romeo and a Montague, for she had been suddenly smit with the 
same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Romeo, which he had 
conceived for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed to her, 
that she must love her enemy, and that her affections should settle 
there, where family considerations should induce her chiefly to hate. 
It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed; but they 
soon missed him, for, unable to stay away from the house where 
he had left his heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was 
at the back of Juliet's house. Here he had not been long, rumina- 
ting on his new love, when Juliet appeared above at a window, 
through which her exceeding beauty seemed to break like the light 
of the sun in the east; and the moon, which shone in the orchard 
with a faint light, appeared to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief 
at the superior lustre of this new sun. And she, leaning her cheek 
upon her hand, he passionately wished himself a glove upon that 
hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this while thinking 
herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed, "Ah me!" 
Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and unheard by 
her, " O speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being over 
my head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals fall 
back to gaze upon." She, unconscious of being overheard, and full 
of the new passion which that night's adventure had given birth to, 
called upon her lover by name (whom she supposed absent) : " O 
Romeo, Romeo!" said she, "wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny 
thy father, and refuse thy name, for my sake; or if thou wilt not, 
be but my sworn love, and I no longer will be a Capulet." Romeo, 



ROMEO AND JULIET 215 

having this encouragement, would fain have spoken, but he was de- 
sirous of hearing more; and the lady continued her passionate dis- 
course with herself (as she thought), still chiding Romeo for being 
Romeo and a Montague, and wishing him some other name, 
or that he would put away that hated name, and for that 
name which was no part of himself, he should take all herself. At 
this loving word Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the 
dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him personally, and 
not merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love, or by whatever other 
name she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, if that name was 
displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear a man's voice in the gar- 
den, did not at first know who it was, that by favour of the night 
and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery of her secret; 
but when he spoke again, though her ears had not yet drunk a hun- 
dred words of that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a lover's hearing, 
that she immediately knew him to be young Romeo, and she expos- 
tulated with him on the danger to which he had exposed himself by 
climbing the orchard walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find 
him there, it would be death to him, being a Montague. " Alack," 
said Romeo, " there is more peril in your eye, than in twenty of their 
swords. Do you but look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof 
against their enmity. Better my life should be ended by their hate, 
than that hated life should be prolonged, to live without your love." 
— " How came you into this place," said Juliet, " and by whose 
direction?" — "Love directed me," answered Romeo: "I am no 
pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that vast shore which 
is washed with the farthest sea, I should venture for such mer- 
chandise." A crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet unseen by 
Romeo by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the discovery 
which she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her love to 
Romeo. She would fain have recalled her words, but that was im- 
possible : fain would she have stood upon form, and have kept her 
lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is, to frown and 
be perverse, and give their suitors harsh denials at first; to stand 



216 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

off, and affect a coyness or indifference, where they most love, that 
their lovers may not think them too lightly or too easily won; for 
the difficulty of attainment increases the value of the object. But 
there was no room in her case for denials, or puttings off, or any 
of the customary arts of delay and protracted courtship. Romeo 
had heard from her own tongue, when she did not- dream that he 
was near her, a confession of her love. So with an honest frank- 
ness, which the novelty of her situation excused, she confirmed the 
truth of what he had before heard, and addressing him by the name 
of fair Montague (love can sweeten a sour name) she begged him 
not to impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind, but 
that he must lay the fault of it (if it were a fault) upon the acci- 
dent of the night which had so strangely discovered her thoughts. 
And she added, that though her behaviour to him might not be 
sufficiently prudent, measured by the custom of her sex, yet that she 
would prove more true than many whose prudence was dissembling, 
and their modesty artificial cunning. 

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness, that nothing 
was farther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dis- 
honour to such an honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging 
him not to swear; for although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy 
of that night's contract: it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. 
But he being urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with him 
that night, she said that she already had given him hers before he 
requested it; meaning, when he overheard her confession; but she 
would retract what she then bestowed, for the pleasure of giving 
it again, for her bounty was as infinite as the sea, and her love as 
deep. From this loving conference she was called away by her 
nurse, who slept with her, and thought it time for her to be in bed, 
for it was near to daybreak; but hastily returning, she said three or 
four words more to Romeo, the purport of which was, that if his 
love was indeed honourable, and his purpose marriage, she would 
send a messenger to him to-morrow, to appoint a time for their 
marriage, when she would lay all her fortunes at his feet, and fol- 



ROMEO AND JULIET 217 

low him as her lord through the world. While they were settling 
this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by her nurse, and went 
in and returned, and went and returned again, for she seemed as 
jealous of Romeo going from her, as a young girl of her bird, which 
she will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it back with a 
silken thread; and Romeo was as loath to part as she; for the 
sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each other's tongues at night. 
But at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest for 
that night. 

The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo, who was 
too full of thoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting to allow 
him to sleep, instead of going home, bent his course to a monastery 
hard by, to find friar Lawrence. The good friar was already up at 
his devotions, but seeing young Romeo abroad so early, he conjec- 
tured rightly that he had not been abed that night, but that some 
distemper of youthful affection had kept him waking. He was 
right in imputing the cause of Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he 
made a wrong guess at the object, for he thought that his love for 
Rosaline had kept him waking. But when Romeo revealed his new 
passion for Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar to marry 
them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort 
of wonder at the sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he had 
been privy to all Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many com- 
plaints of her disdain : and he said, that young men's love lay not 
truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo replying, that 
he himself had often chidden him for doting on Rosaline, who could 
not love him again, whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by 
him, the friar assented in some measure to his reasons; and think- 
ing that a matrimonial alliance between young Juliet and Romeo 
might happily be the means of making up the long breach between 
the Capulets and the Montagues; which no one more lamented than 
this good friar, who was a friend to both the families and had 
often interposed his mediation to make up the quarrel without effect; 
partly moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for young Romeo, 



2i8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

to whom he could deny nothing, the old man consented to join their 
hands in marriage. 

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent 
from a messenger which she had despatched according to promise, 
did not fail to be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their 
hands were joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying the 
heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union of this young Mon- 
tague and young Capulet to bury the old strife and long dissensions 
of their families. 

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she stayed 
impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to 
come and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night 
before; and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the night 
before some great festival seems to an impatient child, that has got 
new finery which it may not put on till the morning. 

That same day, about noon, Romeo's friends, Benvolio and 
Mercutio, walking through the streets of Verona, were met by a 
party of the Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head. 
This was the same angry Tybalt who would have fought with 
Romeo at old lord Capulet's feast. He, seeing Mercutio, accused 
him bluntly of associating with Romeo, a Montague. Mercutio, 
who had as much fire and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied 
to this accusation with some sharpness ; and in spite of all Benvolio 
could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel was beginning, when 
Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce Tybalt turned from 
Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful appellation of 
villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above all 
men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved by 
her; besides, this young Montague had never thoroughly entered 
into the family quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, and the 
name of a Capulet, which was his dear lady's name, was now 
rather a charm to allay resentment, than a watchword to excite fury. 
So he tried to reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the 
name of good Capulet, as if he, though a Montague, had some 




THE DAY WAS BREAKING WHEN THEY PARTED" — Page 217 



ROMEO AND JULIET 219 

secret pleasure in uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all 
Montagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason, but drew his 
weapon; and Mercutio, who knew not of Romeo's secret motive for 
desiring peace with Tybalt, but looked upon his present forbearance 
as a sort of catm dishonourable submission, with many disdainful 
words provoke^ Tybalt to the. prosecution of his first quarrel with 
him; and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving 
his death's wound while Romeo and Benvolio were vainly endeav- 
ouring to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo kept 
his temper no longer, but returned the scornful appellation of 
villain which Tybalt had given him; and they fought till Tybalt 
was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the midst 
of Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly brought a crowd of 
citizens to the spot, and among them the old lords Capulet and 
Montague, with their wives ; and soon after arrived the prince him- 
self, who being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and 
having had the peace of his government often disturbed by these 
brawls of Montagues and Capulets, came determined to put the 
law in strictest force against those who should be found to be 
offenders. Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the fray, was com- 
manded by the prince to relate the origin of it; which he did, keep- 
ing as near the truth as he could without injury to Romeo, softening 
and excusing the part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, 
whose extreme grief for the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her 
keep no bounds in her revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict 
justice upon his murderer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio's 
representation, who, being Romeo's friend and a Montague, spoke 
partially. Thus she pleaded against her new son-in-law, but she 
knew not yet that he was her son-in-law and Juliet's husband. On 
the other hand was to be seen Lady Montague pleading for her 
child's life, and arguing with some justice that Romeo had done 
nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life of Tybalt, which 
was already forfeited to the law by his having slain Mercutio. The 
prince, unmoved by the passionate exclamations of these women, 



220 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

on a careful examination of the facts, pronounced his sentence, and 
by that sentence Romeo was banished from Verona. 

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a few hours a 
bride, and now by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced ! When 
the tidings reached her, she at first gave way to rage against 
Romeo, who had slain her dear cousin : she called him a beautiful 
tyrant, a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a wolf's 
nature, a serpent-heart hid with a flowering face, and other like 
contradictory names, which denoted the struggles in her mind be- 
tween her love and her resentment: but in the end love got the 
mastery, and the tears which she shed for grief that Romeo had slain 
her cousin, turned to drops of joy that her husband lived whom 
Tybalt would have slain. Then came fresh tears, and they were 
altogether of grief for Romeo's banishment. That word was more 
terrible to her than the death of many Tybalts. 

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar Lawrence's cell, 
where he was first made acquainted with the prince's sentence, which 
seemed to him far more terrible than death. To him it appeared 
there was no world out of Verona's walls, no living out of the sight 
of Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and all beyond 
was purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would have applied 
the consolation of philosophy to his griefs : but this frantic, young 
man would hear of none, but like a madman he tore his hair, and 
threw himself all along upon the ground, as he said, to take the 
measure of his grave. From this unseemly state he was roused 
by a message from his dear lady, which a little revived him; and 
then the friar took the advantage to expostulate with him on the 
unmanly weakness which he had shown. He had slain Tybalt, but 
would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady, who lived but in 
his life? The noble form of man, he said, was but a shape of wax, 
when it wanted the courage which should keep it firm. The law 
had been lenient to him, that instead of death, which he had in- 
curred, had pronounced by the prince's mouth only banishment. 
He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him : there was 



ROMEO AND JULIET 221 

a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) 
had become his dear wife; therein he was most happy. All these 
blessings, as the friar made them out to be, did Romeo put from 
him like a sullen misbehaved wench. And the friar bade him 
beware, for such as despaired (he said) died miserable. Then 
when Romeo was a little calmed, he counselled him that he should 
go that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, and thence proceed 
straightways to Mantua, at which place he should sojourn, till the 
friar found fit occasion to publish his marriage, which might be a 
joyful means of reconciling their families; and then he did not 
doubt but the prince would be moved to pardon him, and he would 
return with twenty times more joy than he went forth with grief. 
Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the friar, and took 
his leave to go and seek his lady, proposing to stay with her that 
night, and by daybreak pursue his journey alone to Mantua; to 
which place the good friar promised to send him letters from time 
to time, acquainting him with the state of affairs at home. 

That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret ad- 
mission to her chamber, from the orchard in which he had heard 
her confession of love the night before. That had beer| a night of 
unmixed joy and rapture; but the pleasures of this night, and the 
delight which these lovers took in each other's society, were sadly 
allayed with the prospect of parting, and the fatal adventures of 
the past day. The unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, 
and when. Juliet heard the morning song of the lark, she would have 
persuaded herself that it was the nightingale, which sings by night; 
but it was too truly the lark which sang, and a discordant and 
unpleasing note it seemed to her; and the streaks of day in the east 
too certainly pointed out that it was time for these lovers to part. 
Romeo took his leave of his dear wife with a heavy heart, prom- 
ising to write to her from Mantua every hour in the day; and when 
he had descended from her chamber-window, as he stood below her 
on the ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in which she 
was, he appeared to her eyes as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. 



222 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Romeo's mind misgave him in like manner : but now he was forced 
hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be found within the 
walls of Verona after daybreak. 

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star- 
crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone many days, before the 
old lord Capulet proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had 
chosen for her, not dreaming that she was married already, was 
count Paris, a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no unworthy 
suitor to the young Juliet, if she had never seen Romeo. 

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her father's offer. 
She pleaded her youth unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of 
Tybalt, which had left her spirits too weak to meet a husband with 
any face of joy, and how indecorous it would show for the family 
of the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial feast, when his funeral 
solemnities were hardly over: she pleaded every reason against the 
match, but the true one, namely, that she was married already. But 
lord Capulet was deaf to all her excuses, and in a peremptory man- 
ner ordered her to get ready, for by the following Thursday she 
should be married to Paris : and having found her a husband, rich, 
young, and noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona might joy- 
fully accept, he could not bear that out of an affected coyness, as 
he construed her denial, she should oppose obstacles to her own good 
fortune. 

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always her 
counsellor in distress, and he asking her if she had resolution to 
undertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would 
go into the grave alive rather than marry Paris, her own dear hus- 
band living; he directed her to go home, and appear merry, and 
give her consent to marry Paris, according to her father's desire, and 
on the next night, which was the night before the marriage, to drink 
off the contents of a phial which he then gave her, the effect of 
which would be that for two-and-forty hours after drinking it she 
should appear cold and lifeless; and when the bridegroom came to 
fetch her in the morning, he would find her to appearance dead; 



ROMEO AND JULIET 223 

that then she would be borne, as the manner in that country was, 
uncovered on a bier, to be buried in the family vault; that if she 
could put off womanish fear, and consent to this terrible trial, in 
forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid (such was its certain 
operation) she would be sure to awake, as from a dream; and be- 
fore she should awake, he would let her husband know their drift, 
and he should come in the night, and bear her thence to Mantua. 
Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave young Juliet strength 
to undertake this horrible adventure; and she took the phial of the 
friar, promising to observe his directions. 

Going from the monastery, she met the young count Paris, and 
modestly dissembling, promised to become his bride. This was joy- 
ful news to the lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth 
into the old man; and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly, 
by her refusal of the count, was his darling again, now she promised 
to be obedient. All things in the house were in a bustle against the 
approaching nuptials. No cost was spared to prepare such festival 
rejoicings as Verona had never before witnessed. 

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had 
many misgivings lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be 
imputed to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; 
but then he was always known for a holy man : then lest she should 
awake before the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the 
terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets' bones, and where 
Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would not be enough 
to drive her distracted: again she thought of all the stories she had 
heard of spirits haunting the places where their bodies were be- 
stowed. But then her love for Romeo, and her aversion for 
Paris returned, and she desperately swallowed the draught, and be- 
came insensible. 

When young Paris came early in the morning with music to 
awaken his bride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented 
the dreary spectacle of a lifeless corse. What death to his hopes ! 
What confusion then reigned through the whole house ! Poor 



224 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Paris lamenting his bride, whom most detestable death had beguiled 
him of, had divorced from him even before their hands were joined. 
But still more piteous it was to hear the mournings of the old lord 
and lady Capulet, who having but this one, one poor loving child 
to rejoice and solace in, cruel death had snatched her from their 
sight, just as these careful parents were on the point of seeing her 
advanced (as they thought) by a promising and advantageous match. 
Now all things that were ordained for the festival were turned from 
their properties to do the office of a black funeral. The wedding 
cheer served for a sad burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed 
for sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, and 
the flowers that should have been strewed in the bride's path, now 
served but to strew her corse. Now, instead of a priest to marry 
her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was borne to church 
indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell 
the dreary numbers of the dead. 

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought 
the dismal story of his Juliet's death to Romeo, at Mantua, before 
the messenger could arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence to 
apprise him that these were mock funerals only, and but the shadow 
and representation of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb 
but for a short while, expecting when Romeo would come to release 
her from that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo had been un- 
usually joyful and light-hearted. He had dreamed in the night 
that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead man leave to 
think), and that his lady came and found him dead, and breathed 
such life with kisses in his lips, that he revived, and was an emperor! 
And now that a messenger came from Verona, he thought surely it 
was to confirm some good news which his dreams had presaged. 
But when the contrary to this flattering vision appeared, and that it 
was his lady who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by 
any kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready, for he determined 
that night to visit Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. And 
as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate men, he 



ROMEO AND JULIET 225 

called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had 
lately passed, and from the beggarly appearance of the man, who 
seemed famished, and the wretched show in his show of empty 
boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme 
wretchedness, he had said at the time (perhaps having some mis- 
givings that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a con- 
clusion so desperate), " If a man were to need poison, which by the 
law of Mantua it is death to sell, here lives a, poor wretch who 
would sell it him." These words of his now came into his mind, 
and he sought out the apothecary, who after some pretended 
scruples, Romeo offering him gold, which his poverty could not re- 
sist, sold him a poison, which, if he swallowed, he told him, if he 
had the strength of twenty men, would quickly despatch him. 

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight of his 
dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to 
swallow the poison, and be buried by her side. He reached Verona 
at midnight, and found the churchyard, in the midst of which was 
situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, 
and a spade, and wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break open 
the monument, when he was interrupted by a voice, which by the 
name of vile Montague, bade him desist from his unlawful busi- 
ness. It was the young count Paris, who had come to the tomb 
of Juliet at that unseasonable time of night, to strew flowers and 
to weep over the grave of her that should have been his bride. He 
knew not what an interest Romeo had in the dead, but knowing him 
to be a Montague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all the 
Capulets, he judged that he was come by night to do some villanous 
shame to the dead bodies; therefore in an angry tone he bade him 
desist; and as a criminal, condemned by the laws of Verona to die 
if he were found within the walls of the city, he would have 
apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to leave him, and warned 
him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay buried there, not to provoke his 
anger, or draw down another sin upon his head, by forcing him 
to kill him. But the count in scorn refused his warning, and laid 



226 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting, they fought, and 
Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to see who 
it was that he had slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned in his 
way from Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took the dead 
youth by the hand, as one whom misfortune had made a companion, 
and said that he would bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in 
Juliet's grave, which he now opened : and there lay his lady, as one 
whom death had no power upon to change a feature or complexion, 
in her matchless beauty; or as if Death were amorous, and the lean 
abhorred monster kept her there for his delight; for she lay yet 
fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when she swallowed 
that benumbing potion; and near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, 
whom Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless corse, and for 
Juliet's sake called him cousin, and said that he was about to do him 
a favour by putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his last 
leave of his lady's lips, kissing them ; and here he shook the burden 
of his cross stars from his weary body, swallowing that poison 
which the apothecary had sold him, whose operation was fatal and 
real, not like that dissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, the 
effect of which was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake to 
complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or that he had come too 
soon. 

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised 
that she should awake; and he, having learned that his letters which 
he had sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messenger, 
had never reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a pickaxe 
and lantern, to deliver the lady from her confinement; but he was 
surprised to find a light already burning in the Capulets' monument, 
and to see swords and blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying 
breathless by the monument. 

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these fatal 
accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing 
the friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and 
the occasion of her being there, and asked for Romeo, but the friar, 



ROMEO AND JULIET 227 

hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of death, and of 
unnatural sleep, for a greater power than they could contradict had 
thwarted their intents; and being frightened by the noise of people 
coming, he fled: but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true 
love's hands, she guessed that poison had been the cause of his end, 
and she would have swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and 
she kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon 
them ; then hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly un- 
sheathed a dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her 
true Romeo's side. 

The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page be- 
longing to count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his 
master and Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread among 
the citizens, who went up and down the streets of Verona confusedly 
exclaiming, A Paris ! a Romeo ! a Juliet ! as the rumour had im- 
perfectly reached them, till the uproar brought lord Montague and 
lord Capulet out of their beds, with the prince, to inquire into the 
causes of the disturbance. The friar had been apprehended by 
some of the watch, coming from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, 
and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A great multitude being 
assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar was demanded by the 
prince to deliver what he knew of these strange and disastrous 
accidents. 

And there, in the presence of the old lords Montague and Capu- 
let, he faithfully related the story of their children's fatal love, the 
part he took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that union 
to end the long quarrels between their families : how Romeo, there 
dead, was husband to Juliet; and Juliet, there dead, was Romeo's 
faithful wife; how before he could find a fit opportunity to divulge 
their marriage, another match was projected for Juliet, who, to 
avoid the crime of a second marriage, swallowed the sleeping 
draught (as he advised), and all thought her dead; how meantime 
he wrote to Romeo, to come and take her thence when the force 
of the potion should cease, and by what unfortunate miscarriage 



228 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

of the messenger the letters never reached Romeo : further than this 
the friar could not follow the story, nor knew more than that coming 
himself, to deliver Juliet from that place of death, he found the 
count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of the transactions 
was supplied by the narration of the page who had seen Paris and 
Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with Romeo from 
Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given letters to be delivered 
to his father in the event of his death, which made good the friar's 
words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgive- 
ness of his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of the 
poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monument, to die, 
and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to 
clear the friar from any hand he could be supposed to have in 
these complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended con- 
sequences of his own well meant, yet too artificial and subtle 
contrivances. 

And the prince, turning to these old lords, Montague and Capu- 
let, rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and showed 
them what a scourge Heaven had laid upon such offences, that it 
had found means even through the love of their children to punish 
their unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies, 
agreed to bury their long strife in their children's graves; and lord 
Capulet requested lord Montague to give him his hand, calling 
him by the name of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the union 
of their families, by the marriage of the young Capulet and Mon- 
tague; and saying that lord Montague's hand (in token of recon- 
cilement) was all he demanded for his daughter's jointure: but lord 
Montague said he would give him more, for he would raise her 
a statue of pure gold, that while Verona kept its name, no figure 
should be so esteemed for its richness and workmanship as that 
of the true and faithful Juliet. And lord Capulet in return said 
that he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did these poor old 
lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo each other in mutual 



ROMEO AND JULIET 229 

courtesies: while so deadly had been their rage and enmity in past 
times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their children (poor 
sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions) could remove the rooted 
hates and jealousies of the noble families. 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 

GERTRUDE, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by the 
sudden death of King Hamlet, in less than two months 
after his death married his brother Claudius, which was 
noted by all people at the time for a strange act of indiscretion, or 
unfeelingness, or worse : for this Claudius did no ways resemble her 
late husband in the qualities of his person or his mind, but was as 
contemptible in outward appearance, as he was base and unworthy 
in disposition; and suspicions did not fail to arise in the minds of 
some, that he had privately made away with his brother, the late 
king, with the view of marrying his widow, and ascending the throne 
of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the son of the buried 
king, and lawful successor to the throne. 

But upon no one did this unadvised action of the queen make 
such impression as upon this young prince, who loved and venerated 
the memory of his dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a 
nice sense of honour, and a most exquisite practiser of propriety 
himself, did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct of his 
mother Gertrude : insomuch that, between grief for his father's 
death and shame for his mother's marriage, this young prince was 
overclouded with a deep melancholy, and lost all his mirth and all 
his good looks ; all his customary pleasure in books forsook him, his 
princely exercises and sports, proper to his youth, were no longer 
acceptable; he grew weary of the world, which seemed to him an 
unweeded garden, where all the wholesome flowers were choked up, 
and nothing but weeds could thrive. Not that the prospect of 
exclusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, weighed so much 
upon his spirits, though that to a young and high-minded prince 
was a bitter wound and a sore indignity; but what so galled him, 
and took away all his cheerful spirits, was, that his mother had 

230 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 231 

shown herself so forgetful to his father's memory: and such a 
father! who had been to her so loving and so gentle a husband! 
and then she always appeared as loving and obedient a wife to him, 
and would hang upon him as if her affection grew to him: and now 
within two months, or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than 
two months, she had married again, married his uncle, her dear 
husband's brother, in itself a highly improper and unlawful mar- 
riage, from the nearness of relationship, but made much more so 
by the indecent haste with which it was concluded, and the unkingly 
character of the man whom she had chosen to be the partner of her 
throne and bed. This it was, which more than the loss of ten 
kingdoms, dashed the spirits and brought a cloud over the mind of 
this honourable young prince. 

In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king could do 
to contrive to divert him ; he still appeared in court in a suit of deep 
black, as mourning for the king his father's death, which mode of 
dress he had never laid aside, not even in compliment to his mother 
upon the day she was married, nor could he be brought to join in 
any of the festivities or rejoicings of that (as appeared to him) 
disgraceful day. 

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner 
of his father's death. It was given out by Claudius that a serpent 
had stung him; but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that 
Claudius himself was the serpent; in plain English, that he had 
murdered him for his crown, and that the serpent who stung his 
father did now sit on the throne. 

How far he was right in this conjecture, and what he ought to 
think of his mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and 
whether by her consent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, 
were the doubts which continually harassed and distracted him. 

A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet, that an appari- 
tion, exactly resembling the dead king his father, had been seen by 
the soldiers upon watch, on the platform before the palace at mid- 
night, for two or three nights successively. The figure came con- 



232 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

stantly clad in the same suit of armour, from head to foot, which 
the dead king was known to have worn: and they who saw it (Ham- 
let's bosom friend Horatio was one) agreed in their testimony as 
to the time and manner of its appearance: that it came just as the 
clock struck twelve ; that it looked pale, with a face more of sorrow 
than of anger; that its beard was grisly, and the colour a sable sil- 
vered,^ they had seen it in his lifetime: that it made no answer 
when they spoke to it; yet once they thought it lifted up its head, 
and addressed itself to motion, as if it were about to speak; but in 
that moment the morning cock crew, and it shrunk in haste away, 
and vanished out of their sight. 

The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was 
too consistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that 
it was his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take 
his watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance 
of seeing it; for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance 
did not come for nothing, but that the ghost had something to im- 
part, and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to 
him. And he waited with impatience for the coming of night. 

When night came he took his stand with Horatio, and Marcellus, 
one of the guard, upon the platform, where this apparition was 
accustomed to walk: and it being a cold night, and the air unusually 
raw and nipping, Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell 
into some talk about the coldness of the night, which was suddenly 
broken off by Horatio announcing that the ghost was coming. 

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was struck with a sud- 
den surprise and fear. He at first called upon the angels and 
heavenly ministers to defend them, for he knew not whether it were 
a good spirit or bad; whether it came for good or evil: but he 
gradually assumed more courage; and his father (as it seemed to 
him) looked upon him so piteously, and as it were desiring to have 
conversation with him, and did in all respects appear so like him- 
self as he was when he lived, that Hamlet could not help address- 
ing him : he called him by his name, Hamlet, King, Father ! and 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 233 

conjured him that he would tell the reason why he had left his 
grave, where they had seen him quietly bestowed, to come again and 
visit the earth and the moonlight: and besought him that he would 
let them know if there was anything which they could do to give 
peace to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Hamlet, that he 
should go with him to some more removed place, where they might 
be alone; and Horatio and Marcellus would have dissuaded the 
young prince from following it, for they feared lest it should be some 
evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neighbouring sea, or to the 
top of some dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible shape 
which might deprive the prince of his reason. But their counsels 
and entreaties could not alter Hamlet's determination, who cared 
too little about life to fear the losing of it; and as to his soul, he 
said, what could the spirit do to that, being a thing immortal as 
itself? And he felt as hardy as a lion, and bursting from them, 
who did all they could to hold him, he followed whithersoever the 
spirit led him. 

And when they were alone together, the spirit broke silence, and 
told him that he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been 
cruelly murdered, and he told the manner of it; that it was done 
by his own brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already 
but too much suspected, for the hope of succeeding to his bed and 
crown. That as he was sleeping in his garden, his custom always 
in the afternoon, his treasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep, 
and poured the juice of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has 
such an antipathy to the life of man, that swift as quicksilver it 
courses through all the veins of the body, baking up the blood, and 
spreading a crustlike leprosy all over the skin: thus sleeping, by a 
brother's hand he was cut off at once from his crown, his queen, 
and his life: and he adjured Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father 
love, that he would revenge his foul murder. And the ghost 
lamented to his son, that his mother should so fall off from virtue, 
as to prove false to the wedded love of her first husband, and to 
marry his murderer; but he cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he pro- 



234 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

ceeded in his revenge against his wicked uncle, by no means to act 
any violence against the person of his mother, but to leave her to 
heaven, and to the stings and thorns of conscience. And Hamlet 
promised to observe the ghost's direction in all things, and the ghost, 
vanished. 

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn resolution, 
that all he had in his memory, all that he had ever learned by books 
or observation, should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing 
live in his brain but the memory of what the ghost had told him, 
and enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the 
conversation which had passed to none but his dear friend Horatio; 
and he enjoined both to him and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as 
to what they had seen that night. 

The terror which the sight of the ghost had left upon the senses 
of Hamlet, he being weak and dispirited before, almost unhinged 
his mind, and drove him beside his reason. And he, fearing that 
it would continue to have this effect, which might subject him to ob- 
servation, and set his uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he 
was meditating anything against him, or that Hamlet really knew 
more of his father's death than he professed, took up a strange reso- 
lution, from that time to counterfeit as if he were really and truly 
mad; thinking that he would be less an object of suspicion when his 
uncle should believe him incapable of any serious project, and that 
his real perturbation of mind would be best covered and pass con- 
cealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy. 

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and strange- 
ness in his apparel, his speech, and behaviour, and did so excellently 
counterfeit the madman, that the king and queen were both de- 
ceived, and not thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient 
cause to produce such a distemper, for they knew not of the appear- 
ance of the ghost, they concluded that his malady was love, and they 
thought they had found out the object. 

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which has been re- 
lated, he had dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 235 

of Polonius, the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had 
sent her letters and rings, and made many tenders of his affection 
to her, and importuned her with love in honourable fashion : and 
she had given belief to his vows and importunities. But the mel- 
ancholy which he fell into latterly had made him neglect her, and 
from the time he conceived the project of counterfeiting madness, 
he affected to treat her with unldndness, and a sort of rudeness : but 
she, good lady, rather than reproach him with being false to her, 
persuaded herself that it was nothing but the disease in his mind, 
and no settled unkindness, which had made him less observant of 
her than formerly; and she compared the faculties of his once noble 
mind and excellent understanding, impaired as they were with the 
deep melancholy that oppressed him, to sweet bells which in them- 
selves are capable of most exquisite music, but when jangled out of 
tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and unpleasing sound. 
Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the re- 
venging of his father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with 
the playful state of courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a 
passion as love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but 
that soft thoughts of his Ophelia would come between, and in one 
of these moments, when he thought that his treatment of this gentle 
lady had been unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full 
of wild starts of passion, and in extravagent terms, such as 
agreed with his supposed madness, but mixed with some gentle 
touches of affection, which could not but show to this honoured 
lady that a deep love for her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. 
He bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt that the sun 
did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that he 
loved; with more of such extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia 
dutifully showed to her father, and the old man thought himself 
bound to communicate it to the king and queen, who from that 
time supposed that the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. 
And the queen wished that the good beauties of Ophelia might be 
the happy cause of his wildness, for so she hoped that her virtues 



236 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

might happily restore him to his accustomed way again, to both their 
honours. 

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could 
be so cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still 
haunted his imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his 
murder gave him no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of 
delay seemed to him a sin, and a violation of his father's commands. 
Yet how to compass the death of the king, surrounded as he con- 
stantly was with his guards, was no easy matter. Or if it had been, 
the presence of the queen, Hamlet's mother, who was generally 
with the king, was a restraint upon his purpose, which he could not 
break through. Besides, the very circumstance that the usurper was 
his mother's husband filled him with some remorse, and still blunted 
the edge of his purpose. The mere act of putting a fellow-creature 
to death was in itself odious and terrible to a disposition naturally 
so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very melancholy, and the dejection 
of spirits he had so long been in, produced an irresoluteness and 
wavering of purpose, which kept him from proceeding to extremities. 
Moreover, he could not help having some scruples upon his mind, 
whether the spirit which he had seen was indeed his father, or 
whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard has power to 
take any form he pleases, and who might have assumed his father's 
shape only to take advantage of his weakness and his melancholy, 
to drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as murder. And 
he determined that he would have more certain grounds to go upon 
than a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion. 

While he was in this irresolute mind there came to the court cer- 
tain players, in whom Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and 
particularly to hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing 
the death of old Priam, King of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba 
his queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends, the players, and re- 
membering how that speech had formerly given him pleasure, 
requested the player to repeat it; which he did in so lively a man- 
ner, setting forth the cruel murder of the feeble old king, with the 




HE AFFECTED TO TREAT HER WITH UNKINDNESS"-/ 5 ^ 235 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 237 

destruction of his people and city by fire, and the mad grief of the 
old queen, running barefoot up and down the palace, with a poor 
clout upon that head where a crown had been, and with nothing but 
a blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste, where she had worn 
a royal robe; that not only it drew tears from all that stood by, 
who thought they saw the real scene, so lively was it represented, 
but even the player himself delivered it with a broken voice and 
real tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that player could 
so work himself up to passion by a mere fictitious speech, to weep 
for one that he had never seen, for Hecuba, that had been dead so 
many hundred years, how dull was he, who having a real motive and 
cue for passion, a real king and a dear father murdered, was yet 
so little moved, that his revenge all this while had seemed to have 
slept in dull and muddy forgetfulness ! and while he meditated on 
actors and acting, and the powerful effects which a good play, rep- 
resented to the life, has upon the spectator, he remembered the in- 
stance of some murderer, who seeing a murder on the stage, was by 
the mere force of the scene and resemblance of circumstances so 
affected, that on the spot he confessed the crime which he had com- 
mitted. And he determined that these players should play some- 
thing like the murder of his father before his uncle, and he would 
watch narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and from his 
looks he would be able to gather with more certainty if he were the 
murderer or not. To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, 
to the representation of which he invited the king and queen. 

The story of the play was of a murder done in Vienna upon a 
duke. The duke's name was Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The 
play showed how one Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned 
him in his garden for his estate, and how the murderer in a short 
time after got the love of Gonzago's wife. 

At the representation of this play, the king, who did not know 
the trap which was laid for him, was present, with his queen and the 
whole court: Hamlet sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. 
The play began with a conversation between Gonzago and his wife, 



238 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

in which the lady made many protestations of love, and of never 
marrying a second husband, if she should outlive Gonzago ; wishing 
she might be accursed if she ever took a second husband, and add- 
ing that no woman did so, but those wicked women who kill their 
first husbands. Hamlet observed the king his uncle change colour 
at this expression, and that it was as bad as wormwood both to him 
and to the queen. But when Lucianus, according to the story, came 
to poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden, the strong resemblance 
which it bore to his own wicked act upon the late king, his brother, 
whom he had poisoned in his garden, so struck upon the conscience 
of this usurper, that he was unable to sit out the rest of the play, 
but on a sudden calling for lights to his chamber, and affecting or 
partly feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The 
king being departed, the play was given over. Now Hamlet had 
seen enough to be satisfied that the words of the ghost were true, 
and no illusion; and in a fit of gaiety, like that which comes over a 
man who suddenly has some great doubt or scruple resolved, he 
swore to Horatio, that he would take the ghost's word for a thou- 
sand pounds. But before he could make up his resolution as to 
what measures of revenge he should take, now he was certainly in- 
formed that his uncle was his father's murderer, he was sent for by 
the queen his mother, to a private conference in her closet. 

It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that 
she might signify to her son how much his late behaviour had dis- 
pleased them both, and the king, wishing to know all that passed 
at that conference, and thinking that the too partial report of a 
mother might let slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might 
much import the king to know, Polonius, the old counsellor of state, 
was ordered to plant himself behind the hangings in the queen's 
closet, where he might unseen hear all that passed. This artifice 
was particularly adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was a 
man grown old in crooked maxims and policies of state, and delighted 
to get at the knowledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way. 

Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax him in the 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 239 

roundest way with his actions and behaviour, and she told him that 
he had given great offence to his father, meaning the king, his 
uncle, whom, because he had married her, she called Hamlet's 
father. Hamlet, sorely indignant that she should give so dear and 
honoured a name as father seemed to him, to a wretch who was 
indeed no better than the murderer of his true father, with some 
sharpness replied, " Mother, you have much offended my father." 
The queen said that was but an idle answer. " As good as the 
question deserved," said Hamlet. The queen asked him if he had 
forgotten who it was he was speaking to? " Alas! " replied Ham- 
let, " I wish I could forget. You are the queen, your husband's 
brother's wife; and you are my mother: I wish you were not what 
you are." " Nay, then," said the queen, " if you show me so little 
respect, I will set those to you that can speak," and was going to 
send the king or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her 
go, now he had her alone, till he had tried if his words could not 
bring her to some sense of her wicked life; and, taking her by the 
wrist, he held her fast, and made her sit down. She, affrighted 
at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he should do 
her mischief, cried out; and a voice was heard from behind the 
hangings, " Help, help, the queen ! " which Hamlet hearing, and 
verily thinking that it was the king himself there concealed, he 
drew his sword and stabbed at the place where the voice came from, 
as he would have stabbed a rat that ran there, till the voice ceasing, 
he concluded the person to be dead. But when he dragged forth the 
body, it was not the king, but Polonius, the old officious counsellor, 
that had planted himself as a spy behind the hangings. " Oh me ! " 
exclaimed the queen, " what a rash and bloody deed have you 
done ! " "A bloody deed, mother," replied Hamlet, " but not 
so bad as yours, who killed a king, and married his brother." Ham- 
let had gone too far to leave off here. He was now in the humour 
to speak plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And though the 
faults of parents are to be tenderly treated by their children, yet 
in the case of great crimes the son may have leave to speak even 



2 4 o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

to his own mother with some harshness, so as that harshness is 
meant for her good, and to turn her from her wicked ways, and 
not done for the purpose of upbraiding. And now this virtuous 
prince did in moving terms represent to the queen the heinousness 
of her offence, in being so forgetful of the dead king, his father, 
as in so short a space of time to marry with his brother and re- 
puted murderer : such an act as, after the vows which she had 
sworn to her first husband, was enough to make all vows of women 
suspected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding con- 
tracts to be less than gamesters' oaths, and religion to be a mock- 
ery and a mere form of words. He said she had done such a 
deed, that the heavens blushed at it, and the earth was sick of 
her because of it. And he showed her two pictures, the one of the 
late king, her first husband, and the other of the present king, her 
second husband, and he bade her mark the difference; what a grace 
was on the brow of his father, how like a god he looked! the curls 
of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a posture 
like to Mercury newly alighted on some heaven-kissing hill ! this 
man, he said, had been her husband. And then he showed her 
whom she had got in his stead: how like a blight or a mildew he 
looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome brother. And the 
queen was sore ashamed that he should so turn her eyes inward upon 
her soul, which she now saw so black and deformed. And he asked 
her how she could continue to live with this man, and be a wife to 
him, who had murdered her first husband, and got the crown by as 

false means as a thief and just as he spoke, the ghost of his 

father, such as he was in his lifetime, and such as he had lately seen 
it, entered the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, asked what it 
would have; and the ghost said that it came to remind him of the 
revenge he had promised, which Hamlet seemed to have forgot; and 
the ghost bade him speak to his mother, for the grief and terror she 
was in would else kill her. It then vanished, and was seen by none 
but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing to where it stood, or by 
any description, make his mother perceive it; who was terribly 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 241 

frightened all this while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to her, 
with nothing; and she imputed it to the disorder of his mind. But 
Hamlet begged her not to flatter her wicked soul in such a manner as 
to think that it was his madness, and not her own offences, which had 
brought his father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade her feel 
his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman's. And he 
begged of her with tears, to confess herself to heaven for what was 
past, and for the future to avoid the company of the king, and be 
no more as a wife to him: and when she should show herself a 
mother to him, by respecting his father's memory, he would ask a 
blessing of her as a son. And she promising to observe his direc- 
tions, the conference ended. 

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in his 
unfortunate rashness he had killed: and when he came to see that it 
was Polonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly 
loved, he drew apart the dead body, and, his spirits being now a 
little quieter, he wept for what he had done. 

The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a pretence for 
sending Hamlet out of the kingdom. He would willingly have 
put him to death, fearing him as dangerous; but he dreaded the peo- 
ple, who loved Hamlet, and the queen, who, with all her faults, 
doted upon the prince, her son. So this subtle king, under pretence 
of providing for Hamlet's safety, that he might not be called to 
account for Polonius' death, caused him to be conveyed on board a 
ship bound for England, under the care of two courtiers, by whom 
he despatched letters to the English court, which in that time was 
in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, requiring for special 
reasons there pretended, that Hamlet should be put to death as soon 
as he landed on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some treach- 
ery, in the night-time secretly got at the letters, and skilfully erasing 
his own name, he in the stead of it put in the names of those two 
courtiers, who had the charge of him, to be put to death : then seal- 
ing up the letters, he put them into their place again. Soon after 
the ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight commenced; in the 



242 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

course of which Hamlet, desirous to show his valour, with sword in 
hand singly boarded the enemy's vessel; while his own ship, in a 
cowardly manner, bore away, and leaving him to his fate, the two 
courtiers made the best of their way to England, charged with those 
letters the sense of which Hamlet had altered to their own deserved 
destruction. 

The pirates, who had the prince in their power, showed themselves 
gentle enemies ; and knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the 
hope that the prince might do them a good turn at court in recom- 
pense for any favour they might show him, they set Hamlet on shore 
at the nearest port in Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to 
the king, acquainting him with the strange chance which had brought 
him back to his own country, and saying that on the next day he 
should present himself before his majesty. When he got home, a 
sad spectacle offered itself the first thing to his eyes. 

This was the funeral of the young and beautiful Ophelia, his once 
dear mistress. The wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever 
since her poor father's death. That he should die a violent death, 
and by the hands of the prince whom she loved, so affected this 
tender young maid, that in a little time she grew perfectly distracted, 
and would go about giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, 
and saying that they were for her father's burial, singing songs about 
love and about death, and sometimes such as had no meaning at all, 
as if she had no memory of what happened to her. There was a 
willow which grew slanting over a brook, and reflected its leaves on 
the stream. To this brook she came one day when she was un- 
watched, with garlands she had been making, mixed up of daisies 
and nettles, flowers and weeds together, and clambering up to hang 
her garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bough broke, and pre- 
cipitated this fair young maid, garland, and all that she had gath- 
ered, into the water, where her clothes bore her up for a while, during 
which she chanted scraps of old tunes, like one insensible to her own 
distress, or as if she were a creature natural to that element: but 
long it was not before her garments, heavy with the wet, pulled her 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 243 

in from her melodious singing to a muddy and miserable death. It 
was the funeral of this fair maid which her brother Laertes was cel- 
ebrating, the king and queen and whole court being present, when 
Hamlet arrived. He knew not what all this show imported, but 
stood on one side, not inclining to interrupt the ceremony. He saw 
the flowers strewed upon her grave, as the custom was in maiden 
burials, which the queen herself threw in ; and as she threw them she 
said, "Sweets to the sweet! I thought to have decked thy bride- 
bed, sweet maid, not to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst 
have been my Hamlet's wife." And he heard her brother wish 
that violets might spring from her grave : and he saw him leap into 
the grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attendants pile moun- 
tains of earth upon him, that he might be buried with her. And 
Hamlet's love for this fair maid came back to him, and he could 
not bear that a brother should show so much transport of grief, for 
he thought that he loved Ophelia better than forty thousand broth- 
ers. Then discovering himself, he leaped into the grave where 
Laertes was, all as frantic or more frantic than he, and Laertes know- 
ing him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause of his father's and 
his sister's death, grappled him by the throat as an enemy, till the 
attendants parted them : and Hamlet, after the funeral, excused his 
hasty act in throwing himself into the grave as if to brave Laertes; 
but he said he could not bear that any one should seem to outgo him 
in grief for the death of the fair Ophelia. And for the time these 
two noble youths seemed reconciled. 

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death of his 
father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived de- 
struction for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace and 
reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at 
fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try the 
match. At this match all the court was present, and Laertes, by 
direction of the king, prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this 
match great wagers were laid by the courtiers, as TDOth Hamlet and 
Laertes were known to excel at this sword play; and Hamlet taking 



244 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

up the foils chose one, not at all suspecting the treachery of Laertes, 
or being careful to examine Laertes' weapon, who, instead of a foil 
or blunted sword, which the laws of fencing require, made use of 
one with a point, and poisoned. At first Laertes did but play with 
Hamlet, and suffered him to gain some advantages, which the dis- 
sembling king magnified and extolled beyond measure, drinking to 
Hamlet's success, and wagering rich bets upon the issue : but after a 
few pauses, Laertes growing warm made a deadly thrust at Hamlet 
with his poisoned weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet in- 
censed, but not knowing the whole of the treachery, in the scuffle 
exchanged his own innocent weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and 
with a thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid Laertes home, who was 
thus justly caught in his own treachery. In this instant the queen 
shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had inadvertently drunk 
out of a bowl which the king had prepared for Hamlet, in case, that 
being warm in fencing, he should call for drink : into this the treach- 
erous king had infused a deadly poison, to make sure of Hamlet, if 
Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn the queen of the bowl, 
which she drank of, and immediately died, exclaiming with her last 
breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, 
ordered the doors to be shut, while he sought it out. Laertes told 
him to seek no farther, for he was the traitor; and feeling his life 
go away with the wound which Hamlet had given him, he made 
confession of the treachery he had used, and how he had fallen a 
victim to it : and he told Hamlet of the envenomed point, and said 
that Hamlet had not half an hour to live, for no medicine could 
cure him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet, he died, with 
his last words accusing the king of being the contriver of 
the mischief. When Hamlet saw his end draw near, there 
being yet some venom left upon the sword, he suddenly 
turned upon his false uncle, and thrust the point of it to his 
heart, fulfilling the promise which he had made to his father's 
spirit, whose injunction was now accomplished, and his foul murder 
revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his breath fail 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 245 

and life departing, turned to his dear friend Horatio, who had been 
spectator of this fatal tragedy; and with his dying breath requested 
him that he would live to tell his story to the world ( for Horatio had 
made a motion as if he would slay himself to accompany the prince 
in death), and Horatio promised that he would make a true report, 
as one that was privy to all the circumstances. And, thus satisfied, 
the noble heart of Hamlet cracked; and Horatio and the bystanders 
with many tears commended the spirit of this sweet prince to the 
guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving and a gentle 
prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and princelike qual- 
ities ; and if he had lived, would no doubt have proved a most royal 
and complete king to Denmark. 



OTHELLO 

BRABANTIO, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair daugh- 
ter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought to by divers 
suitors, both on account of her many virtuous qualities, and 
for her rich expectations. But among the suitors of her own clime 
and complexion, she saw none whom she could affect: for this noble 
lady, who regarded the mind more than the features of men, with a 
singularity rather to be admired than imitated, had chosen for the 
object of her affections, a Moor, a black, whom her father loved, 
and often invited to his house. 

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned for the unsuit- 
ableness of the person whom she selected for her lover. Bating that 
Othello was black, the noble Moor wanted nothing which might 
recommend him to the affections of the greatest lady. He was a 
soldier, and a brave one; and by his conduct in bloody wars against 
the Turks, had risen to the rank of general in the Venetian service, 
and was esteemed and trusted by the state. 

He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is the manner of 
ladies) loved to hear him tell the story of his adventures, which he 
would run through from his earliest recollection; the battles, sieges, 
and encounters, which he had passed through; the perils he had been 
exposed to by land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he 
had entered a breach, or marched up to the mouth of a cannon; and 
how he had been taken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to 
slavery; how he demeaned himself in that state, and how he escaped : 
all these accounts, added to the narration of the strange things he 
had seen in foreign countries, the vast wilderness and romantic cav- 
erns, the quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads are in the 
clouds; of the savage nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and 
a race of people in Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoul- 

246 



OTHELLO 247 

ders : these travellers' stories would so enchain the attention of Des- 
demona, that if she were called off at any time by household affairs, 
she would despatch with all haste that business, and return, and with 
a greedy ear devour Othello's discourse. And once he took advan- 
tage of a pliant hour, and drew from her a prayer, that he would 
tell her the whole story of his life at large, of which she had heard 
so much, but only by parts : to which he consented, and beguiled her 
of many a tear, when he spoke of some distressful stroke which his 
youth had suffered. 

His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of sighs : 
she swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing strange, and pitiful, 
wondrous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she 
wished that heaven had made her such a man; and then she thanked 
him, and told him, if he had a friend who loved her, he had only 
to teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon 
this hint, delivered not with more frankness than modesty, accom- 
panied with certain bewitching prettiness, and blushes, which Othello 
could not but understand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in 
this golden opportunity gained the consent of the generous lady 
Desdemona privately to marry him. 

Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such that it could 
be hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-in-law. He had 
left his daughter free; but he did expect that, as the manner of 
noble Venetian ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of 
senatorial rank or expectations; but in this he was deceived; Desde- 
mona loved the Moor, though he was black, and devoted her heart 
and fortunes to his valiant parts and qualities; so was her heart sub- 
dued to an implicit devotion to the man she had selected for a hus- 
band, that his very colour, which to all but this discerning lady would 
have proved an insurmountable objection, was by her esteemed above 
all the white skins and clear complexions of the young Venetian no- 
bility, her suitors. 

Their marriage, which, though privately carried, could not long 
be kept a secret, came to the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who 



248 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

appeared in a solemn council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor 
Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced 
the affections of the fair Desdemona to marry him, without the con- 
sent of her father, and against the obligations of hospitality. 

At this juncture of time it happened that the state of Venice had 
immediate need of the services of Othello, news having arrived that 
the Turks with mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was 
bending its course to the island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that 
strong post from the Venetians, who then held it ; in this emergency 
the state turned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed ade- 
quate to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks. So that 
Othello, now summoned before the senate, stood in their presence at 
once as a candidate for a great state employment, and as a culprit, 
charged with offences which by the laws of Venice were made capital. 

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio, commanded 
a most patient hearing from that grave assembly; but the incensed 
father conducted his accusation with so much intemperance, produc- 
ing likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was 
called upon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of the 
course of his love ; which he did with such an artless eloquence, re- 
counting the whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above, 
and delivered his speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of 
truth), that the duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help con- 
fessing that a tale so told would have won his daughter too: and 
the spells and conjurations which Othello had used in his courtship, 
plainly appeared to have been no more than the honest arts of men 
in love; and the only witchcraft which he had used, the faculty of 
telling a soft tale to win a lady's ear. 

This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the 
lady Desdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a 
duty to her father for life and education, challenged leave of him 
to profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband, even so much 
as her mother had shown in preferring him (Brabantio) above her 
father. 




HE BEGUILED HER. OF MANY A TEAR, WHEN HE SPOKE OF WHAT HIS 
YOUTH HAD SUFFERED" — Page 247 



OTHELLO 249 

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called the Moor to 
him with many expressions of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, 
bestowed upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been free to with- 
hold her (he told him) , he would with all his heart have kept from 
him; adding, that he was glad at soul that he had no other child, 
for this behaviour of Desdemona would have taught him to be a 
tyrant, and hang clogs on them for her desertion. 

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom custom had ren- 
dered the hardships of a military life as natural as food and rest 
are to other men, readily undertook the management of the wars 
in Cyprus : and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord 
(though with danger) before the indulgence of those idle delights 
in which new-married people usually waste their time, cheerfully con- 
sented to his going. 

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus, than news 
arrived, that a desperate tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, 
and thus the island was secure from any immediate apprehension of 
an attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer, was now be- 
ginning; and the enemies, which malice stirred up against his inno- 
cent lady, proved in their nature more deadly than strangers or in- 
fidels. 

Among all the general's friends no one possessed the confidence 
of Othello more entirely than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young 
soldier, a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favour- 
ite qualities with women; he was handsome and eloquent, and ex- 
actly such a person as might alarm the jealousy of a man advanced 
in years (as Othello in some measure was), who had married a 
young and beautiful wife; but Othello was as free from jealousy as 
he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting as of doing a base action. 
He had employed this Cassio in his love affair with Desdemona, and 
Cassio had been a sort of go-between in his suit: for Othello, fear- 
ing that himself had $ot those soft parts of conversation which please 
ladies, and finding these qualities in his friend, would often depute 
Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a courting for him: such innocent 



250 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

simplicity being rather an honour than a blemish to the character of 
the valiant Moor. So that no wonder, if next to Othello himself 
(but at far distance, as beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle Desde- 
mona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this cou- 
ple made any difference in their behaviour to Michael Cassio. He 
frequented their house, and his free and rattling talk was no unpleas- 
ing variety to Othello, who was himself of a more serious temper: 
for such tempers are observed often to delight in their contraries, 
as a relief from the oppressive excess of their own : and Desdemona 
and Cassio would talk and laugh together, as in the days when he 
went a courting for his friend. 

Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieutenant, a place 
of trust, and nearest to the general's person. This promotion gave 
great offence to Iago, an older officer who thought he had a better 
claim than Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio as a fellow fit 
only for the company of ladies, and one that knew no more of the 
art of war or how to set an army in array for battle, than a girl. 
Iago hated Cassio, and he hated Othello, as well for favouring 
Cassio, as for an unjust suspicion, which he had lightly taken up 
against Othello, that the Moor was too fond of Iago's wife Emilia. 
From these imaginary provocations, the plotting mind of Iago con- 
ceived a horrid scheme of revenge, which should involve both Cassio, 
the Moor, and Desdemona, in one common ruin. 

Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply, and he 
knew that of all the torments which afflict the mind of man (and 
far beyond bodily torture), the pains of jealousy were the most in- 
tolerable, and had the sorest sting. If he could succeed in making 
Othello jealous of Cassio, he thought it would be an exquisite plot of 
revenge, and might end in the death of Cassio or Othello, or both; 
he cared not. 

The arrival of the general and his lady, in Cyprus, meeting with 
the news of the dispersion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of hol- 
iday in the island. Everybody gave themselves up to feasting 
and making merry. Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went 



OTHELLO 251 

round to the health of the black Othello, and his lady the fair Des- 
demona. 

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with a charge 
from Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in drinking, that no 
brawl might arise, to fright the inhabitants, or disgust them with the 
new-landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans of 
mischief: under colour of loyalty and love to the general, he en- 
ticed Cassio to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault 
in an officer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he could 
not long hold out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how 
to put on, but kept swallowing glass after glass (as Iago still plied 
him with drink and encouraging songs), and Cassio's tongue ran 
over in praise of the lady Desdemona, whom he again and again 
toasted, affirming that she was a most exquisite lady: until at last 
the enemy which he put into his mouth stole away his brains ; and 
upon some provocation given him by a fellow whom Iago had set 
on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a worthy officer, who inter- 
fered to appease the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot 
now began to be general, and Iago, who had set on foot the mis- 
chief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, causing the castle-bell 
to be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a slight drunken 
quarrel had arisen) : the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello, who, 
dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, questioned 
Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, the effect of 
the wine having a little gone off, but was too much ashamed to reply ; 
and Iago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but, as it 
were, forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth, gave 
an account of the whole matter (leaving out his own share in it, 
which Cassio was too far gone to remember) in such a manner, as 
while he seemed to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it 
appear greater than it was. The result was, that Othello, who was 
a strict observer of discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio's 
place of lieutenant from him. 

Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely; he had now un- 



252 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

dermined his hated rival, and thrust him out of his place : but a fur- 
ther u§£ was hereafter to be made of the adventure of this disastrous 
nid*£ 

V Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered, now lamented 
to his seeming friend Iago that he should have been such a fool as 
to transform himself into a beast. He was undone, for how could 
he ask the general for his place again? he would tell him he was a 
drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, affecting to make light of 
it, said, that he, or any man living, might be drunk upon occasion ; 
it remained now to make the best of a bad bargain; the general's 
wife was now the general, and could do anything with Othello; that 
he were best to apply to the lady Desdemona to mediate for him 
with her lord; that she was of a frank, obliging disposition, and would 
readily undertake a good office of this sort, and set Cassio right again 
in the general's favour; and then this crack in their love would be 
made stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago, if it had not been 
given for wicked purposes, which will after appear. 

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application to the lady 
Desdemona, who was easy to be won over in any honest suit; and 
she promised Cassio that she should be his solicitor with her lord, 
and rather die than give up his cause. This she immediately 
set about in so earnest and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was 
mortally offended with Cassio, could not put her off. When he 
pleaded delay, and that it was too soon to pardon such an offender, 
she would not be beat back, but insisted that it should be the next 
night, or the morning after, or the next morning to that at farthest. 
Then she showed how penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, and 
that his offence did not deserve so sharp a check. And when Othello 
still hung back, " What! my lord," said she, " that I should have so 
much to do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio, that came a courting 
for you, and oftentimes, when I have spoken in dispraise of you, 
has taken your part! I count this but a little thing to ask of you. 
When I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty matter." 
Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting 



OTHELLO 253 

that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised to receive 
Michael Cassio again in favour. 

It happened that Othello and Iago had entered into the room 
where Desdemona was, just as Cassio, who had been imploring her 
intercession, was departing at the opposite door : and Iago, who was 
full of art, said in a low voice, as if to himself, " I like not that." 
Othello took no great notice of what he said; indeed, the conference 
which immediately took place with his lady put it out of his head; 
but he remembered it afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone, 
Iago, as if for mere satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello 
whether Michael Cassio, when Othello was courting his lady, knew 
of his love. To this the general answering in the affirmative, and 
adding, that he had gone between them very often during the court- 
ship, Iago knitted his brow, as if he had got fresh light on some 
terrible matter, and cried, " Indeed! " This brought into Othello's 
mind the words which Iago had let fall upon entering the room, and 
seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to think there was 
some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago to be a just man, and 
full of love and honesty, and what in a false knave would be tricks, 
in him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest mind, big 
with something too great for utterance : and Othello prayed Iago 
to speak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words c 
" And what," said Iago, " if some thoughts very vile should have 
intruded into my breast, as where is the palace into which foul things 
do not enter? " Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it were, if 
any trouble should arise to Othello. out of his imperfect observa 
tions; that it would not be for Othello's peace to know his thoughts; 
that people's good names were not to be taken away for slight sus- 
picions; and when Othello's curiosity was raised almost to distrac- 
tion with these hints and scattered words, Iago, as if in earnest care 
for Othello's peace of mind, besought him to beware of jealousy: 
with such art did this villain raise suspicions in the unguarded 
Othello, by the very caution which he pretended to give him against 
suspicion. " I know," said Othello, " that my wife is fair, loves 



254 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances 
well : but where virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must have 
proof before I think her dishonest." Then Iago, as if glad that 
Othello was slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he 
had no proof, but begged Othello to observe her behaviour well, 
when Cassio was by; not to be jealous nor too secure neither, for 
that he (Iago) knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his coun- 
trywomen, better than Othello could do; and that in Venice the 
wives let heaven see many pranks they dared not show their hus- 
bands. Then he artfully insinuated that Desdemona deceived her 
father in marrying with Othello, and carried it so closely, that the 
poor old man thought that witchcraft had been used. Othello was 
much moved with this argument, which brought the matter home to 
him, for if she had deceived her father, why might she not deceive 
her husband? I 

Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but Othello, assum- 
ing an indifference, while he was really shaken with inward grief at 
lago's words, begged him to go on, which Iago did with many apol- 
ogies, as if unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom he 
called his fnend: he then came strongly to the point, and reminded 
Othello how Desdemona had refused many suitable matches of her 
own clime and complexion, and had married him, a Moor, which 
showed unnatural in her, and proved her to have a headstrong will; 
and when her better judgment returned, how probable it was she 
should fall upon comparing Othello with the fine forms and clear 
white complexions of the young Italians her countrymen. He con- 
cluded with advising Othello to put off his reconcilement with Cassio 
a little longer, and in the meanwhile to note with what earnestness 
Desdemona should intercede in his behalf; for that much would be 
seen in that. So mischievously did this artful villain lay his plots 
to turn the gentle qualities of this innocent lady into her destruction, 
and make a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap her : first 
setting Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and then out of that very 
mediation contriving stratagems for her ruin. 



OTHELLO 255 

The conference ended with lago's begging Othello to account his 
wife innocent, until he had more decisive proof; and Othello prom- 
ised to be patient ; but from that moment the deceived Othello never 
tasted content of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, nor 
all the sleeping potions in the world, could ever again restore to him 
that sweet rest, which he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation 
sickened upon him. He no longer took delight in arms. His heart, 
that used to be roused at the sight of troops, and banners, and battle- 
array, and would stir and leap at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, 
or a neighing war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride and am- 
bition which are a soldier's virtue; and his military ardour and all 
his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he thought his wife honest, 
and at times he thought her not so; sometimes he thought Iago just, 
and at times he thought him not so; then he would wish that he had 
never known of it; he was not the worse for her loving Cassio, so 
long as he knew it not : torn to pieces with these distracting thoughts, 
he once laid hold on lago's throat, and demanded proof of Desde- 
mona's guilt, or threatened instant death for his having belied 
her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should be^ taken 
for a vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a handker- 
chief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand. Othello an- 
swered, that he had given her such a one, and that it was his first 
gift. " That same handkerchief," said Iago, " did I see Michael 
Cassio this day wipe his face with." " If it be as you say," said 
Othello, " I will not rest till a wide revenge swallow them up: and 
first, for a token of your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be put 
to death within three days; and for that fair devil (meaning his 
lady), I will withdraw and devise some swift means of death for 
her." 

Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong as holy writ. 
A handkerchief of his wife's seen in Cassio's hand, was motive 
enough to the deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them 
both, without once inquiring how Cassio came by it. Desdemona 
had never given such a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady 



256 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

have wronged her lord with doing so naughty a thing as giving his 
presents to another man; both Cassio and Desdemona were inno- 
cent of any offence against Othello: but the wicked Iago, whose 
spirits never slept in contrivance of villany, had made his wife (a 
good, but a weak woman) steal this handkerchief from Desdemona, 
under pretence of getting the work copied, but in reality to drop it 
in Cassio's way, where he might find it, and give a handle to Iago's 
suggestion that it was Desdemona's present. 

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he had a 
headache (as he might indeed with truth), and desired her to lend 
him her handkerchief to hold to his temples. She did so. " Not 
this," said Othello, " but that handkerchief I gave you." Desde- 
mona had it not about her (for indeed it was stolen, as we have re- 
lated). "How?" said Othello, "this is a fault indeed. That 
handkerchief an Egyptian woman gave to my mother; the woman 
was a witch and could read people's thoughts : she told my mother, 
while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and my father would 
love her ; but, if she lost it, or gave it away, my father's fancy would 
turn, and he would loathe her as much as he had loved her. She 
dying gave it to me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it to 
my wife. I did so; take heed of it. Make it a darling as precious 
as your eye." " Is it possible? " said the frighted lady. " 'Tis 
true," continued Othello; " it is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that 
had lived in the world two hundred years, in a fit of prophetic fury 
worked it; the silkworms that furnished the silk were hallowed, and 
it was dyed in a mummy of maidens' hearts conserved." Desde- 
mona, hearing the wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was ready 
to die with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and 
with it, she feared, the affections of her husband. Then Othello 
started, and looked as if he were going to do some rash thing, and 
still he demanded the handkerchief, which when she could not pro- 
duce, she tried to divert her husband from too serious thoughts, and 
cheerfully told him she saw all his talk about the handkerchief was 
only to put her off from her suit about Michael Cassio, whom she 



OTHELLO 257 

went on to praise (as Iago had foretold), till Othello in perfect dis- 
traction burst out of the room, and then Desdemona, though un- 
willingly, began to suspect that her lord was jealous. 

What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and 
then she accused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought 
to be sure that some untoward news from Venice, or some state 
troubles had puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet 
as formerly. And she said, " Men are not gods, and we must not 
look for that observance from them when they are married, which 
they show us on the bridal day." And she beshrewed herself for 
so unkindly judging of his unkindness. 

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more 
plainly of being unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did 
not name whom : and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, " Alas ! 
the heavy day! why do you weep?" And Othello told her, he 
could have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude — poverty, and 
disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity had broken his heart: and 
he called her a weed, that looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, 
that the sense ached at it; and wished she had never been born. 
And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so stupefied with 
wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that a weight-like 
sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant to make 
her bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when 
people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks, 
and Othello might have chid her so; for in good faith she was 
but a child when she was chidden. And this was all the com- 
plaint which this gentle lady made. 

Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord would follow 
her, soon fell into a slumber, the effect of her troubled spirits, when 
Othello entered the chamber, full of the black purpose which he 
had meditated of putting his lady to death. But when he saw her 
asleep, he thought he would not shed her blood, nor scar that 
white skin of hers, more white than alabaster. But he was re- 
solved she should die; else (as he said) she would live to betray 



258 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

more men, as she had done him. Then he kissed her for the last 
time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, that he must needs 
kiss her again : and he wept, but he said they were cruel tears. 

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she looked upon 
Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under lip, and roll his eyes, 
and she knew he was always fatal when he looked so : and he bade 
her prepare for death, and to say her prayers, for he would not 
kill her soul. And this innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, 
begged for compassion, and to know her fault, and then he named 
Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he said) she had given him; 
and as the guiltless lady was proceeding to clear herself he suddenly 
would hear no more, but covering her up in the bed-clothes, stifled 
her till she died. 

In this instant of time was brought into the house Cassio, 
wounded and bleeding, whom Iago had set one of his creatures on 
to assassinate; but the fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill 
Cassio (whom he wounded, but not mortally), and being himself 
killed by Iago to prevent discovery, in his pockets were found sev- 
eral letters, which made the guilt of Iago, and the innocence of 
Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; and Cassio now came to beg pardon 
of Othello, and to ask wherein he had offended him, that he had 
employed Iago to murder him. 

This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello, who now 
plainly saw that he was no better than a murderer, and that his 
wife (poor innocent lady) had been ever faithful to him; the ex- 
treme anguish of which discovery making life insupportable, he fell 
upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body of his dear 
injured lady, expired. 

These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement 
in the bystanders, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till 
he was wrought upon by the arts of a villain, which his own noble 
nature never gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a dot- 
ing husband. He had loved not wisely, but too well; and his 
manly eyes (when he learned his mistake), though not used to 



OTHELLO 259 

weep on every small occasion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian 
trees their gum. And when he was dead all his former merits and 
his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now remained for his 
successor but to put the utmost censure of the law in force against 
Iago, who was executed with strict tortures; and to send word to 
the state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned 
general. 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 

PERICLES, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile from his 
dominions, to avert the dreadful calamities which Antiochus, 
the wicked emperor of Greece, threatened to bring upon his 
subjects and city of Tyre, in revenge for a discovery which the 
prince had made of a shocking deed which the emperor had done 
in secret; as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into the hidden 
crimes of great ones. Leaving the government of his people in 
the hands of his able and honest minister, Helicanus, Pericles set 
sail from Tyre, thinking .o absent himself till the wrath of An- 
tiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased. 

The first place which the prince directed his course to was Tar- 
sus, and hearing that the city of Tarsus was at that time suffering 
under a severe famine, he took with him store of provisions for 
its relief. On his arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost 
distress; and, he coming like a messenger from heaven with his 
unhoped-for succour, Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, welcomed him 
with boundless thanks. Pericles had not been here many days, 
before letters came from his faithful minister, warning him that it 
was not safe for him to stay at Tarsus, for Antiochus knew of his 
abode, and by secret emissaries despatched for that purpose sought 
his life. Upon receipt of these letters Pericles put out to sea again, 
amidst the blessings and prayers of a whole people who had been 
fed by his bounty. 

He had not sailed far, when his ship was overtaken by a dread- 
ful storm, and every man on board perished except Pericles, who 
was cast by the sea-waves naked on an unknown shore, where he 
had not wandered long before he met with some poor fishermen, 
who invited him to their homes, giving him clothes and provisions. 
The fishermen told Pericles the name of their country was Pentap- 

260 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 261 

olis, and that their king was Simonides, commonly called the good 
Simonides, because of his peaceable reign and good government. 
From them he also learned that king Simonides had a fair young 
daughter, and that the following day was her birthday, when a 
grand tournament was to be held at court, many princes and knights 
being come from all parts to try their skill in arms for the love of 
Thaisa, this fair princess. While the prince was listening to this 
account, and secretly lamenting the loss of his good armour, which 
disabled him from making one among these valiant knights, an- 
other fisherman brought in a complete suit of armour that he had 
taken out of the sea with his fishing-net, which proved to be the 
very armour he had lost. When Pericles beheld his own armour, 
he said, " Thanks, Fortune; after all my crosses you give me some- 
what to repair myself. This armour T s bequeathed to me by 
my dead father, for whose dear sake I ha\e so loved it, that whither- 
soever I went, I still have kept it by me, and the rough sea that 
parted it from me, having now become calm, hath given it back 
again, for which I thank it, for, since I have my father's gift again, 
I think my shipwreck no misfortune." 

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's armour, re- 
paired to the royal court of Simonides, where he performed won- 
ders at the tournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights 
and valiant princes who contended with him in arms for the honour 
of Thaisa's love. When brave warriors contended at court tourna- 
ments for the love of king's daughters, if one proved sole victor 
over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady for whose sake 
these deeds of valour were undertaken, to bestow all her respect 
upon the conqueror, and Thaisa did not depart from this custom, 
for she presently dismissed all the princes and knights whom Per- 
icles had vanquished, and distinguished him by her especial favour 
and regard, crowning him with the wreath of victory, as king of 
that day's happiness ; and Pericles became a most passionate lover 
of this beauteous princess from the first moment he beheld her. 

The good Simonides so well approved of the valour and noble 



262 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentle- 
man, and well learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew 
not the rank of this royal stranger (for Pericles for fear of An- 
tiochus gave out that he was a private gentleman of Tyre), yet 
did not Simonides disdain to accept of the valiant unknown for a 
son-in-law, when he perceived his daughter's affections were firmly 
fixed upon him. 

Pericles had not been many months married to Thaisa, before he 
received intelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead; and that 
his subjects of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to 
revolt, and talked of placing Helicanus upon his vacant throne. 
This news came from Helicanus himself, who, being a loyal sub- 
ject to his royal master, would not accept of the high dignity 
offered him, but sent to let Pericles know their intentions, that he 
might return home and resume his lawful right. It was matter 
of great surprise and joy to Simonides, to find that his son-in-law 
(the obscure knight) was the renowned prince of Tyre; yet again 
he regretted that he was not the private gentleman he supposed 
him to be, seeing that he must now part both with his admired 
son-in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he feared to trust to 
the perils of the sea, because Thaisa was with child; and Pericles 
himself wished her to remain with her father till after her con- 
finement, but the poor lady so earnestly desired to go with her 
husband, that at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyre 
before she was brought to bed. 

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles, for long 
before they reached Tyre another dreadful tempest arose, which 
so terrified Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in a short space of 
time her nurse Lychorida came to Pericles with a little child in 
her arms, to tell the prince the sad tidings that his wife died the 
moment her little babe was born. She held the babe towards its 
father, saying, " Here is a thing too young for such a place. This 
is the child of your dead queen." No tongue can tell the dread- 
ful sufferings of Pericles when he heard his wife was dead. As 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 263 

soon as he could speak, he said, " O you gods, why do you make 
us love your goodly gifts, and then snatch those gifts away? " 
" Patience, good sir," said Lychorida, " here is all that is left 
alive of our dead queen, a little daughter, and for your child's 
sake be more manly. Patience, good sir, even for the sake of this 
precious charge." Pericles took the new-born infant in his arms, 
and he said to the little babe, " Now may your life be mild, for 
a more blusterous birth had never babe ! May your condition be 
mild and gentle, for you have had the rudest welcome that ever 
prince's child did meet with ! May that which follows be happy, 
for you have had as chiding a nativity as fire, air, water, earth, and 
heaven could make to herald you from the womb ! Even at the 
first, your loss," meaning in the death of her mother, " is more 
than all the joys, which you shall find upon this earth to which 
you are come a new visitor, shall be able to recompense." 

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors hav- 
ing a superstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the 
storm would never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his 
queen should be thrown overboard; and they said, " What courage, 
sir? God save you!" "Courage enough," said the sorrowing 
prince: " I do not fear the storm; it has done to me its worst; yet 
for the love of this poor infant, this fresh new seafarer, I wish the 
storm was over." " Sir," said the sailors, " your queen must over- 
board. The sea works high, the wind is loud, and the storm will 
not abate till the ship be cleared of the dead." Though Pericles 
knew how weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he patiently 
submitted, saying, " As you think meet. Then she must over- 
board, most wretched queen ! " And now this unhappy prince went 
to take a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on his Thaisa, 
he said, "A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; no light, 
no fire; the unfriendly elements forget thee utterly, nor have I 
time to bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee scarcely 
coffined into the sea, where for a monument upon thy bones the 
humming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple 



264 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

shells. O Lychorida, bid Nester bring me spices, ink, and paper, 
my casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin 
coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go about this suddenly, 
Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my Thaisa." 

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrapped in a 
satin shroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he 
strewed over her, and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a writ- 
ten paper, telling who she was, and praying if haply any one should 
find the chest which contained the body of his wife, they would 
give her burial : and then with his own hands he cast the chest into 
the sea. When the storm was over, Pericles ordered the sailors to 
make for Tarsus. " For," said Pericles, " the babe cannot hold 
out till we come to Tyre. At Tarsus I will leave it at careful 
nursing." 

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was thrown into the 
sea, and while it was yet early morning, as Cerimon, a worthy 
gentleman of Ephesus, and a most skilful physician, was standing 
by the sea-side, his servants brought to him a chest, which they said 
the sea-waves had thrown on the land. " I never saw," said one 
of them, " so huge a billow as cast it on our shore." Cerimon 
ordered the chest to be conveyed to his own house, and when it 
was opened he beheld with wonder the body of a young and lovely 
lady; and the sweet-smelling spices and rich casket of jewels made 
him conclude it was some great person who was thus strangely 
entombed: searching farther, he discovered a paper, from which 
he learned that the corpse which lay as dead before him had been 
a queen, and wife to Pericles, prince of Tyre; and much admiring 
at the strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the husband 
who had lost this sweet lady, he said, " If you are living, Pericles, 
you have a heart that even cracks with woe." Then observing 
attentively Thaisa's face, he saw how fresh and unlike death her 
looks were, and he said, " They were too hasty that threw you 
into the sea : " for he did not believe her to be dead. He ordered 
a fire to be made, and proper cordials to be brought, and soft music 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 265 

to be played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits if she 
should revive; and he said to those who crowded round her, won- 
dering at what they saw, " I pray you, gentlemen, give her air; 
this queen will live; she has not been entranced above five hours; 
and see, she begins to blow into life again; she is alive; behold, 
her eyelids move ; this fair creature will live to make us weep to hear 
her fate." Thaisa had never died, but after the birth of her little 
baby had fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that saw her 
conclude her to be dead; and now by the care of this kind gentle- 
man she once more revived to light and life; and opening her eyes, 
she said, "Where am I? Where is my lord? What world is 
this? " By gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand what had 
befallen her; and when he thought she was enough recovered to 
bear the sight, he showed her the paper written by her husband, 
and the jewels; and she looked on the paper, and said, " It is my 
lord's writing. That I was shipped at sea, I well remember, but 
whether there delivered of my babe, by the holy gods I cannot 
rightly say; but since my wedded lord I never shall see again, I 
will put on a vestal livery, and never more have joy." " Madam," 
said Cerimon, " if you purpose as you speak, the temple of Diana 
is not far distant from hence; there you may abide as a vestal. 
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there attend you." 
This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa ; and when she 
was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her in the temple of 
Diana, where she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and 
passed her days in sorrowing for her husband's supposed loss, and 
in the most devout exercises of those times. 

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he named Marina, 
because she was born at sea) to Tarsus, intending to leave her with 
Cleon, the governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, 
for the good he had done to them at the time of their famine, they 
would be kind to his little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw 
prince Pericles, and heard of the great loss which had befallen 
him, he said, " O your sweet queen, that it had pleased Heaven 



266 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

you could have brought her hither to have blessed my eyes with 
the sight of her! " Pericles, replied, "We must obey the powers 
above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea does in which my 
Thaisa lies, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina 
here, I must charge your charity with her. I leave her the infant 
of your care, beseeching you to give her princely training." And 
then turning to Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, " Good madam, 
make me blessed in your care in bringing up my child: " and she 
answered, " I have a child myself who shall not be more dear to 
my respect than yours, my lord; " and Cleon made the like promise, 
saying, " Your noble services, prince Pericles, in feeding my whole 
people with your corn (for which in their prayers they daily re- 
member you) must in your child be thought on. If I should 
neglect your child, my whole people that were by you relieved would 
force me to my duty; but if to that I need a spur, the gods revenge 
it on me and mine to the end of generation." Pericles, being thus 
assured that his child would be carefully attended to, left her to 
the protection of Cleon and his wife Dionysia, and with her he 
left the nurse Lychorida. When he went away, the little Marina 
knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her 
royal master. " O, no tears, Lychorida," said Pericles: " no tears; 
look to your little mistress, on whose grace you may depend here- 
after." 

Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once more settled in 
the quiet possession of his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he 
thought dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, 
whom this hapless mother had never seen, was brought up by 
Cleon in a manner suitable to her high birth. He gave her the 
most careful education, so that by the time Marina attained the 
age of fourteen years, the most deeply-learned men were not more 
studied in the learning of those times than was Marina. She sang 
like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like, and with her needle 
she was so skilful that she seemed to compose nature's own shapes, 
in birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being scarcely more 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 267 

like to each other than they were to Manna's silken flowers. But 
when she had gained from education all these graces, which made 
her the general wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became her 
mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason that her own daughter, 
from the slowness of her mind, was not able to attain to that per- 
fection wherein Marina excelled: and finding that all praise was 
bestowed on Marina, whilst her daughter, who was of the same 
age, and had been educated with the same care as Marina, though 
not with the same success, was in comparison disregarded, she 
formed a project to remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagin- 
ing that her untoward daughter would be more respected when 
Marina was no more seen. To encompass this she employed a 
man to murder Marina, and she well timed her wicked design, 
when Lychorida, the faithful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was 
discoursing with the man she had commanded to commit this 
murder, when the young Marina was weeping over the dead 
Lychorida. Leonine, the man she employed to do this bad deed, 
though he was a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to 
undertake it, so had Marina won all hearts to love her. He said, 
"She is a goodly creature!" "The fitter then the gods should 
have her," replied her merciless enemy: "here she comes weeping 
for the death of her nurse Lychorida : are you resolved to obey 
me? " Leonine, fearing to disobey her, replied, " I am resolved." 
And so, in that one short sentence, was the matchless Marina 
doomed to an untimely death. She now approached, with a basket 
of flowers in her hand, which she said she would daily strew over 
the grave of good Lychorida. The purple violet and the mari- 
gold should as a carpet hang upon her grave, while summer days 
did last. " Alas, for me ! " she said, " poor unhappy maid, born 
in a tempest, when my mother died. This world to me is like a 
lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends." " How now, 
Marina," said the dissembling Dionysia, "do you weep alone? 
How does it chance my daughter is not with you? Do not sor- 
row for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite 



268 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

changed with this unprofitable woe. Come, give me your flowers, 
the sea-air will spoil them ; and walk with Leonine : the air is fine, 
and will enliven you. Come, Leonine, take her by the arm, and 
walk with her." " No, madam," said Marina, " I pray you let 
me not deprive you of your servant:" for Leonine was one of 
Dionysia's attendants. " Come, come," said this artful woman, 
who wished for a pretence to leave her alone with Leonine, 
" I love the prince, your father, and I love you. We every day 
expect your father here; and when he comes, and finds you so 
changed by grief from the paragon of beauty we reported you, he 
will think we have taken no care of you. Go, I pray you, walk, 
and be cheerful once again. Be careful of that excellent com- 
plexion, which stole the hearts of old and young." Marina, being 
thus importuned, said, " Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire 
to it." As Dionysia walked away, she said to Leonine, " Remem- 
ber what I have said! " — shocking words, for their meaning was 
that he should remember to kill Marina. 

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said, " Is 
the wind westerly that blows?" "Southwest," replied Leonine. 
"When I was born the wind was north," said she: and then the 
storm and tempest, and all her father's sorrows, and her mother's 
death, came full into her mind; and she said, " My father, as 
Lychorida told me, did never fear, but cried, Courage, good sea- 
men, to the sailors, galling his princely hands with the ropes, and, 
clasping to the mast, he endured a sea that almost split the deck." 
"When was this?" said Leonine. "When I was born," replied 
Marina: "never were wind and waves more violent;" and then 
she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswain's 
whistle, and the loud call of the master, " which," said she, 
" trebled the confusion of the ship." Lychorida had so often re- 
counted to Marina the story of her hapless birth that these things 
seemed ever present to her imagination. But here Leonine inter- 
rupted her with desiring her to say her prayers. " What mean 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 269 

you? " said Marina, who began to fear, she knew not why. " If 
you require a little space for prayer, I grant it," said Leonine; 
" but be not tedious, the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn 
to do my work in haste." "Will you kill me?" said Marina: 
"alas! why?" "To satisfy my lady," replied Leonine. "Why 
would she have me killed? " said Marina: " now, as I can remem- 
ber, I never hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad word, nor 
did any ill turn to any living creature. Believe me now, I never 
killed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm once against 
my will, but I wept for it. How have I offended?" The mur- 
derer replied, " My commission is not to reason on the deed, but 
to do it." And he was just going to kill her, when certain pirates 
happened to land at that very moment, who seeing Marina, bore 
her off as a prize to their ship. 

The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried her to Mity- 
lene, and sold her for a slave, where, though in that humble con- 
dition, Marina soon became known throughout the whole city of 
Mitylene for her beauty and her virtues; and the person to whom 
she was sold became rich by the money she earned for him. She 
taught music, dancing, and fine needleworks, and the money she 
got by her scholars she gave to her master and mistress; and the 
fame of her learning and her great industry came to the knowl- 
edge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was governor of 
Mitylene, and Lysimachus went himself to the house where Marina 
dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the city praised 
so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus beyond meas- 
ure, for though he had heard much of this admired maiden, he 
did not expect to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so 
good, as he perceived Marina to be; and he left her, saying, he 
hoped she would persevere in her industrious and virtuous course, 
and that if ever she heard from him again it should be for her 
good. Lysimachus thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine 
breeding, and excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all out- 



270 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

ward graces, that he wished to marry her, and notwithstanding her 
humble situation, he hoped to find that her birth was noble ; but ever 
when they asked her parentage she would sit still and weep. 

Meantime, at Tarsus, Leonine, fearing the anger of Dionysia, 
told her he had killed Marina; and that wicked woman gave out 
that she was dead, and made a pretended funeral for her, and 
erected a stately monument; and shortly after Pericles, accompanied 
by his loyal minister Helicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to 
Tarsus, on purpose to see his daughter, intending to take her home 
with him : and he never having beheld her since he left her an 
infant in the care of Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince 
rejoice at the thought of seeing this dear child of his buried queen! 
but when they told him Marina was dead, and showed the monu- 
ment they had erected for her, great was the misery this most 
wretched father endured, and not being able to bear the sight of 
that country where his last hope and only memory of his dear 
Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from 
Tarsus. From the day he entered the ship a dull and heavy mel- 
ancholy seized him. He never spoke, and seemed totally insensible 
to everything around him. 

Sailing from Tarsus to Tyre, the ship in its course passed by 
Mitylene, where Marina dwelt; the governor of which place, 
Lysimachus, observing this royal vessel from the shore, and desir- 
ous of knowing who was on board, went in a barge to the side of 
the ship, to satisfy his curiosity. Helicanus received him very 
courteously and told him that the ship came from Tyre, and that 
they were conducting thither Pericles, their prince; "A man, sir," 
said Helicanus, " who has not spoken to any one these three months, 
nor taken any sustenance, but just to prolong his grief; it would be 
tedious to repeat the whole ground of his distemper, but the main 
springs from the loss of a beloved daughter and a wife." Lysima- 
chus begged to see this afflicted prince, and when he beheld Pericles, 
he saw he had been once a goodly person, and he said to him, 
" Sir king, all hail, the gods preserve you, hail, royal sir ! " But 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 271 

in vain Lysimachus spoke to him ; Pericles made no answer, nor did 
he appear to perceive any stranger approached. And then Lysi- 
machus bethought him of the peerless maid Marina, that haply 
with her sweet tongue she might win some answer from the silent 
prince : and with the consent of Helicanus he sent for Marina, and 
when she entered the ship in which her own father sat motionless 
with grief, they welcomed her on board as if they had known she 
was their princess; and they cried, " She is a gallant lady." Lysim- 
achus was well pleased to hear their commendations, and he said, 
" She is such a one, that were I well assured she came of noble 
birth, I would wish no better choice, and think me rarely blessed 
in a wife." And then he addressed her in courtly. terms, as if the 
lowly-seeming maid had been the high-born lady he wished to find 
her, calling her Fair and beautiful Marina, telling her a great 
prince on board that ship had fallen into a sad and mournful silence; 
and, as if Marina had the power of conferring health and felicity, 
he begged she would undertake to cure the royal stranger of his 
melancholy. " Sir," said Marina, " I will use my utmost skill in 
his recovery, provided none but I and my maid be suffered to come 
near him." 

She, who at Mitylene had so carefully concealed her birth, 
ashamed to tell that one of royal ancestry was now a slave, first 
began to speak to Pericles of the wayward changes in her own 
fate, telling him from what a high estate herself had fallen. As 
if she had known it was her royal father she stood before, all the 
words she spoke were of her own sorrows; but her reason for so 
doing was, that she knew nothing more wins the attention of the 
unfortunate than the recital of some sad calamity to match their 
own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused the drooping prince; 
he lifted up his eyes, which had been so long fixed and motionless; 
and Marina, who was the perfect image of her mother, presented 
to his amazed sight the features of his dead queen. The long- 
silent prince was once more heard to speak. " My dearest wife," 
said the awakened Pericles, " was like this maid, and such a one 



272 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

might my daughter have been. My queen's square brows, her 
stature to an inch, as wand-like straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes 
as jewel-like. Where do you live, young maid? Report your 
parentage. I think you said you had been tossed from wrong to 
injury, and that you thought your griefs would equal mine, if both 
were opened." " Some such thing I said," replied Marina, " and 
said no more than what my thoughts did warrant me as likely." 
"Tell me your story," answered Pericles; "if I find you have 
known the thousandth part of my endurance, you have borne your 
sorrows like a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you do 
look like Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling extremity 
out of act. How lost you your name, my most kind virgin? 
Recount your story I beseech you. Come, sit by me." How was 
Pericles surprised when she said her name was Marina, for he 
knew it was no usual name, but had been invented by himself for 
his own child to signify seaborn: " O, I am mocked," said he, 
" and you are sent hither by some incensed god to make the world 
laugh at me." " Patience, good sir," said Marina, " or I must 
cease here." "Nay," said Pericles, "I will be patient; you little 
know how you do startle me, to call yourself Marina." " The 
name," she replied, " was given me by one that had some power, 
my father, and a king." "How, a king's daughter! " said Peri- 
cles, "and called Marina! But are you flesh and blood? Are 
you no fairy? Speak on; where were you born? and wherefore 
called Marina?" She replied, "I was called Marina, because I 
was born at sea. My mother was the daughter of a king; she 
died the minute I was born, as my good nurse Lychorida has often 
told me weeping. The king, my father, left me at Tarsus, till 
the cruel wife of Cleon sought to murder me. A crew of pirates 
came and rescued me, and brought me here to Mitylene. But, 
good sir, why do you weep ? It may be, you think me an impostor. 
But, indeed, sir, I am the daughter to king Pericles, if good king 
Pericles be living." Then Pericles, terrified as he seemed at his 
own sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real, loudly called 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 273 

for his attendants, who rejoiced at the sound of their beloved king's 
voice; and he said to Helicanus, " O Helicanus, strike me, give me 
a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys rushing 
upon me, overbear the shores of my mortality. O, come hither, 
thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, and found at sea 
again. O Helicanus, down on your knees, thank the holy gods ! 
This is Marina. Now blessings on thee, my child ! Give me fresh 
garments, mine own Helicanus ! She is not dead at Tarsus as she 
should have been by the savage Dionysia. She shall tell you all, 
when you shall kneel to her and call her your very princess. Who 
is this?" (observing Lysimachus for the first time.) "Sir," said 
Helicanus, " it is the governor of Mitylene, who, hearing of your 
melancholy, came to see you." " I embrace you, sir," said Peri- 
cles. " Give me my robes ! I am well with beholding — O 
heaven bless my girl! But hark, what music is that? " — for now, 
either sent by some kind god, or by his own delighted fancy de- 
ceived, he seemed to hear soft music. " My lord, I hear none," 
replied Helicanus. " None? " said Pericles; " why it is the music 
of the spheres." As there was no music to be heard, Lysimachus 
concluded that the sudden joy had unsettled the prince's under- 
standing; and he said, " It is not good to cross him: let him have 
his way: " and then they told him they heard the music; and he 
now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over him, Lysim- 
achus persuaded him to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow 
under his head, he, quite overpowered with excess of joy, sank into 
a sound sleep, and Marina watched in silence by the couch of her 
sleeping parent. 

While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which made him re- 
solve to go to Ephesus. His dream was, that Diana, the goddess 
of the Ephesians, appeared to him, and commanded him to go to 
her temple at Ephesus, and there before her altar to declare the 
story of his life and misfortunes; and by her silver bow she 
swore, that if he performed her injunction, he should meet with 
some rare felicity. When he awoke, being miraculously refreshed, 



274 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

he told his dream, and that his resolution was to obey the bidding 
of the goddess. 

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore, and refresh 
himself with such entertainment as he should find at Mitylene, 
which courteous offer Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him 
for the space of a day or two. During which time we may well 
suppose what f eastings, what rejoicings, what costly shows and 
entertainments the governor made in Mitylene, to greet the royal 
father of his dear Marina, whom in her obscure fortunes he had so 
respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon Lysimachus's suit, when 
he understood how he had honoured his child in the days of her 
low estate, and that Marina showed herself not averse to his pro- 
posals; only he made it a condition, before he gave his consent, that 
they should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian Diana : to 
whose temple they shortly after all three undertook a voyage; and, 
the goddess herself filling their sails with prosperous winds, after 
a few weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus. 

There was standing near the altar of the goddess, when Pericles 
with his train entered the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown 
very aged) who had restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life; 
and Thaisa, now a priestess of the temple, was standing before the 
altar; and though the many years he had passed in sorrow for her 
loss had much altered Pericles, Thaisa thought she knew her hus- 
band's features, and when he approached the altar and began to 
speak, she remembered his voice, and listened to his words with 
wonder and a joyful amazement. And these were the words that 
Pericles spoke before the altar: "Hail, Diana! to perform thy 
just commands, I here confess myself the prince of Tyre, who, 
frighted from my country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa : 
she died at sea in childbed, but brought forth a maid-child called 
Marina. She at Tarsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at four- 
teen years thought to kill her, but her better stars brought her to 
Mitylene, by whose shores as I sailed, her good fortunes brought 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 275 

this maid on board, where by her most clear remembrance she made 
herself known to be my daughter." 

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his words had raised 
in her, cried out, " You are, you are, O royal Pericles " — and 
fainted. "What means this woman?" said Pericles: "she dies! 
gentlemen, help." — " Sir," said Cerimon, " if you have told Diana's 
altar true, this is your wife." " Reverend gentleman, no," said 
Pericles: "I threw her overboard with these very arms." Ceri- 
mon then recounted how, early one tempestuous morning, this lady 
was thrown upon the Ephesian shore; how, opening the coffin, he 
found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how, happily, he recovered 
her, and placed her here in Diana's temple. And now, Thaisa 
being restored from her swoon said, " O my lord, are you not 
Pericles? Like him you speak, like him you are. Did you not 
name a tempest, a birth, and death? " He astonished said, "The 
voice of dead Thaisa ! " " That Thaisa am I," she replied, " sup- 
posed dead and drowned." " O true Diana! " exclaimed Pericles, 
in a passion of devout astonishment. " And now," said Thaisa, 
" I know you better. Such a ring as I see on your finger did the 
king my father give you, when we with tears parted from him at 
Pentapolis." "Enough, you gods!" cried Pericles, "your pres- 
ent kindness makes my past miseries sport. O come, Thaisa, be 
buried a second time within these arms." 

And Marina said, " My heart leaps to be gone into my mother's 
bosom." Then did Pericles show his daughter to her mother, say- 
ing, " Look who kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen at sea, 
and called Marina, because she was yielded there." " Blessed and 
my own! " said Thaisa: and while she hung in rapturous joy over 
her child, Pericles knelt before the altar, saying, " Pure Diana, bless 
thee for thy vision. For this, I will offer oblations nightly to 
thee." And then and there did Pericles, with the consent of Thaisa, 
solemnly affiance their daughter, the virtuous Marina, to the well- 
deserving Lysimachus in marriage. 



276 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and daughter, a famous 
example of virtue assailed by calamity (through the sufferance of 
Heaven, to teach patience and constancy to men), under the same 
guidance becoming finally successful, and triumphing over chance 
and change. In Helicanus we have beheld a notable pattern of 
truth, of faith, and loyalty, who, when he might have succeeded 
to a throne, chose rather to recall the rightful owner to his pos- 
session, than to become great by another's wrong. In the worthy 
Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are instructed how good- 
ness directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits upon mankind, 
approaches to the nature of the gods. It only remains to be told, 
that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end propor- 
tionable to her deserts; the inhabitants of Tarsus, when her cruel 
attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body to revenge the 
daughter of their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of Cleon, 
burnt both him and her, and their whole household : the gods seem- 
ing well pleased, that so foul a murder, though but intentional, and 
never carried into act, should be punished in a way befitting its 
enormity. 



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

BY 

WINSTON STOKES 



THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 

IN Windsor there dwelt the fat knight, Sir John Falstaff, of such 
girth and portliness that two wenches with joined hands could 
hardly have encircled him — a lord of thieves, a mountain of 
rascality, who lodged at the Garter Inn, drinking huge bowls of sack 
and ale, sending his cut-purse servants on dishonest errands. This 
knight, in seeking how to obtain the gold of other and worthier 
persons than himself, hit on the plan of making love to Mistress 
Ford and Mistress Page, the wives of two wealthy gentlemen of 
Windsor, who, ruling their husband's coffers, should become to him, 
so he said, his East and West Indies; while he, trading to both, 
should line his pockets with their gold. And Falstaff had the 
temerity to send his page, Robin, with love letters to each of the 
two ladies, wherein he expressed himself most ardently, signing him- 
self, thine own true knight, for thee to fight, John Falstaff. 

Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, who were close friends, were 
used to sup and dine together with their husbands and followers at 
the house of one or the other as chance might find them; to visit 
and make merry at all hours, and to share in common many jests 
and secrets. No sooner, therefore, did Mistress Page receive Sir 
John's epistle, than in wonder, and torn between anger and merri- 
ment, she hastened toward the house of Mistress Ford. 

" Have I," said she, " escaped love letters in the holiday time of 
my beauty to be a subject for them now? Why the man hath not 
been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I'll 
exhibit a bill in parliament for the putting down of men ! " 

While speaking in this manner, she came on Mistress Ford hasten- 
ing in the opposite direction, who cried out on seeing her and thrust 
into her hand a letter, bidding her to read at once and perceive how 
she might be knighted. It was, said she, a marvellous insult, mar- 

279 



280 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

vellously writ: she would think the worse of fat men all her life in 
consequence, and Mistress Page read: 

" Ask me no reason why I love you, for though love use reason 
for his physician he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not 
young, no more am I; go to then, there's sympathy ; you are merry, 
so am I; ha, ha! then there's more sympathy; you love sack and so 
do I; would you desire better sympathy? let it suffice thee, Mistress 
Ford, that I love thee. 

Thine own true knight 

By day or night 
Or any kind of light. 

With all his might 
For thee to fight, 

John Falstaff." 

" Letter for letter ! " exclaimed Mistress Page. " For your com- 
fort, here's the twin brother of your letter. I warrant he has a 
thousand of them writ with blank space for different names ! " And 
she cried out on the unweighed behaviour that this Flemish drunk- 
ard, as she called Falstaff, had picked, with the devil's name, out of 
their conversation; for otherwise, said she, never would he have 
dared insult them in such manner. 

These ladies, although light-hearted, were as virtuous as Sir John 
imagined them to be false, and his message justly incensed them : 
not only on account of its ill-chosen love-making, but because with 
natural vanity they liked but ill to receive such sallies from one who 
was old and fat, a drunkard, given to dishonest practices, thieving 
and other forms of wickedness. They determined, therefore, to 
chastise Sir John most roundly for his insolence, conceiving a 
vengeance by which they could not only punish him, but gratify 
their mirth in so doing. 

In pursuance of their plan, they dispatched to him one Mistress 
Quickly for their messenger, a feather-brained woman who de- 
lighted in such importance, who told Sir John that Mistress Ford 



THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 281 

sent him a thousand thanks and bade him visit her the next day 
between ten and eleven, when her husband would be from home. 
Never, said Mistress Quickly, was a lady brought to such a state 
of mind before. How Sir John had accomplished it was wonderful 
and past belief. Surely he must have charms, said she, for there 
had been knights, lords and fine gentlemen in coaches, letter after 
letter, gift after gift, with silk and gold, all perfumed sweetly, 
smelling of musk — the fairest, indeed, to win the heart of any 
woman, — and yet they could never so much as win an eye-wink 
from Mistress Ford. And Mistress Page, who was as virtuous a 
civil, modest wife as lived in Windsor, and would never miss Sir 
John in morning or evening prayer, did likewise dote upon him, 
and gave him to know that her husband seldom was from home, — 
but she hoped there would soon come a time. 

Falstaff, in his conceit, believed that he had actually encompassed 
these two wives, — that in spite of husbands, wealth and families 
they intended to bestow themselves upon him. He bade Mistress 
Quickly commend him to them both (although on no account should 
either learn of his dealings with the other) and he prepared to meet 
Mistress Ford at the appointed hour. 

Now Falstaff was beset with other dangers than were intended 
for him by the wives whose virtues he had thus attempted; for being, 
as he said, out at heels, forced of necessity to shift and thieve, he 
had discharged his three servants without paying them a single penny 
of their wages, bidding them, if they would thrive, to go and steal 
as he himself was forced to do — and in revenge these had borne 
his plans to Master Ford and Master Page. 

Master Page was of an easy nature and trusted in his wife. He 
said that he would turn her loose to Falstaff, warranting that worthy 
would receive only sharp words; but Ford was of jealous temper 
and believed Page to be a fool who stood on his wife's frailty. For 
his own part, he said, he would be loath to turn them together. A 
man could be too confident. He liked it none the better that the 
news had come from Falstaff's cast-off servants; and to Falstaff, 



282 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

therefore, the jealous husband came in a disguise under the assumed 
name of Master Brook, with a trumped-up tale to the effect that 
he had long loved Mistress Ford from afar, bestowed much on her, 
followed her with a doting observance and engrossed opportunities 
to meet her. Not only had he brought presents to her, said Ford, 
but had given largely to many to know what gifts would please her 
best — all of which was to no purpose, for as she would have none 
of him, his love was like a fair house built on another man's ground, 
lost in mistaking the place of its erection. 

" To what purpose," said Falstaff, " have you unfolded this to 
me?" 

" When I have told you that I have told you all," replied Ford. 
" The heart of my purpose is this : that you, Sir John, who are so 
skillful in the art of wooing, so famous for your warlike, courtlike, 
and learned demeanour, may win her love." 

With detection in his hand, the disguised husband asserted that 
he could drive this lady from the ward of her purity, her reputa- 
tion and her marriage vow, which at the time were too strongly 
embattled against him. 

When the supposed Master Brook told Falstaff that he should 
want no money for his pains, the knight, thoroughly deceived, cried 
out: " And you, Master Brook, shall want no Mistress Ford! I 
shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as 
you came to me, her assistant or go-between parted from me. I 
say I shall be with her between ten and eleven, for at that time the 
jealous, rascally knave, her husband, will be forth." 

" Were it not well," said Ford, dissembling his anger, " that you 
knew this gentleman when you saw him to avoid him in the future? " 

" Let him be hanged for a salt-butter rogue ! " cried Falstaff. " I 
will stare him out of his wits. I will awe him with my cudgel," and 
the rascal heaped a torrent of abuse upon this jealous husband, say- 
ing that the cowardly ruffian's wife should become the key to her 
husband's coffers, where he, Falstaff, should find his harvest-home. 

When Ford heard Falstaff speak in this fashion, not only brag- 



THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 283 

ging of his purpose, but calling him numberless villainous names, he 
was beside himself with passion, and determined to enter his house 
with armed servants and cudgel-bearers at the time when the false 
knight would be present; for now aware of Falstaff's plans, and the 
hour of their execution, Ford proposed to punish him most soundly, 
uncover the treachery of his own wife, pluck the veil of modesty 
from Mistress Page and laugh at her husband for his fancied security. 

So, between the hours of ten and eleven, Master Ford with neigh- 
bours and servants, armed with pistols, whips and cudgels made an 
onslaught on his home. 

Strangely enough, however, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page in 
following their design on Falstaff, had proposed to frighten him 
by saying that this very thing would happen; they had provided 
for the fat knight a hiding place in a basket of foul linen, and serv- 
ants were to bear this forth on their shoulders, and empty it in the 
muddy ditch close by the riverside. 

While Master Ford and his followers drew near his house, Fal- 
staff had already entered there. He called Mistress Ford his heav- 
enly jewel and cried out upon that blessed hour, which was the period 
of his ambition. He said that he could not prate and say that she 
was this and that, like many of those lisping, hawthorn-buds who 
came like women in men's apparel, but none the less he loved her, 
none but she, and she deserved it of him. But Falstaff before long 
was forced to conceal himself, for Mistress Page came to the door, 
crying out that Master Ford with half Windsor at his # heels was 
come to search the house, and pray heaven, said she, there was no 
one concealed there, or else were Mistress Ford undone indeed! 

" Nay, but there is," said Mistress Ford, exclaiming in apparent 
terror, " a gentleman, my own dear friend, and I fear not my dis- 
grace so much as his great peril. I had rather than a thousand 
pounds he were out of the house ! " 

" For shame," cried Mistress Page, " never stand and say ' you 
had rather ' now ! Your husband's here at hand ! Bethink you, 
woman, of some conveyance! Look, here is a basket, let him creep 



284 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

in here ! Throw linen on him, and send him by two men to Datchet 
Mead!" 

Mistress Ford replied that her friend was too big by far to go in 
there; but Falstaff, in fear for his life, plunged from behind the 
curtain, bellowing like a bull and crying out to her to follow her 
friend's counsel. He clambered into the basket, was covered with 
foul linen and borne away toward the ditch by serving-men, while 
Ford and his followers burst into the house, ransacked closets, chests 
and clothes-press, and even discharged their firearms up the chimney 
in hopes the knight had taken refuge there. 

The two dames, however, were not yet done with Falstaff, and 
gave him to know through the same messenger, Mistress Quickly, 
that they were heartily sorry for the mischance that had befallen 
him; and Mistress Ford appointed a second meeting with Sir John, 
when further mischief was to be worked upon him. 

But Ford had wondered greatly why his plans had gone amiss, 
and in disguise a second time, still under the name of Master Brook, 
he went again to Falstaff who imparted to him all his misadventures 
— how he had been carried and ducked in the name of foul clothes 
at Datchet Lane, crying out for Master Brook to think of it, to 
be half-stewed in grease like a Dutch dish and then to be thrown 
into the Thames, glowing hot, and cooled in that surge like a horse- 
shoe! 

Ford said that he was in truth sorry Sir John had suffered so 
greatly for his sake. His suit, he feared, was desperate. Assuredly 
no one even so brave and valiant as Falstaff would undertake Mis- 
tress Ford after such a reception. But Falstaff cried that he would 
be thrown into Etna as he had been into the Thames ere he would 
leave her thus. He had received, said he, another embassy of meet- 
ing; the hour was betwixt eight and nine; he would even then ad- 
dress him to his appointment; and Ford, with the vow that this 
time Falstaff should not escape him, summoned once again his 
friends and retainers and prepared for a second time to invade his 
house. 




fc,,,»„,,-, . I , ll 1wlgw l jjj l llj 




THROW LINEN ON HIM, AND SEND HIM BY TWO MEN TO DATCHET 

mead ! ' ''—Page 284- 



THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 285 

When Ford arrived, he beheld the basket that had concealed Fal- 
staff so successfully on the day previous, for Mistress Ford had 
slyly bidden her servants to carry it forth again, in the hope that her 
husband would believe the knight a second time hidden within it; 
and Ford bade the servants set it down, shouting for Falstaff to 
come forth, and scattered the linen about the room to no other 
purpose than confusion. For Mistress Ford had disguised Sir John 
as the famous fat woman of Brentford, an old witch whom Ford 
had promised roundly to cudgel if ever she came within his house; 
and when Ford beheld this amazing figure, which he would have 
detected had his anger been less violent (for Falstaff's beard showed 
plainly beneath the veil about his head) he called Falstaff hag, witch 
and runyon, cudgelled him soundly, and with hand and foot thrust 
him from the door, proceeding then to search for him he had just 
ousted, while his wife and Mistress Page were overcome with merri- 
ment. 

The two dames then made known to their husbands what they had 
done, and Ford and Page were greatly astonished and laughed 
heartily at the sorry plight in which the poor, unvirtuous, fat knight 
had placed himself through his affections. Master Ford said that 
he would never mistrust his wife again — she should stand in future 
as a precious emblem of constancy and wifely virtues. They all de- 
cided, however, that the jest would have no period if Falstaff were 
not publicly disgraced, proposing to shame him openly in the presence 
of their friends and neighbours, and for this purpose they conceived 
the plan of luring him to a nearby forest said to be enchanted, where 
their children, dressed as fairies, should swarm upon him, pinch him 
and burn him with tapers, until the rest should disclose themselves 
and mock him back to Windsor. 

Among the young people who were to aid them in this jest, was 
Mistress Page's daughter Anne, of sufficient dowry and appearance 
to be desired in marriage by all the young and many of the older 
men of Windsor; and her mother in this design on Falstaff had a 
secret purpose, for she intended that Anne Page should be disguised 



286 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

in such a manner that a French doctor, whom she desired for a son- 
in-law, should recognize the garments and steal Anne away secretly 
to be married. Master Page bore this doctor little love and never 
in the world would have consented to such an alliance. He proposed 
that his daughter should marry a simple but wealthy youth named 
Slender, whose fortune he desired to be united with his own acres, 
and Master Page prepared to force his daughter to wed Slender, 
who was utterly a fool and who possessed no grace save that of 
wealth to recommend him as a husband. 

Master Page was well aware of the opportunity this jest would 
give him, for he also intended Anne to be dressed in a certain man- 
ner, when, on a password, Slender was to lead her to the vicarage 
and marry her there. 

To both her father and her mother Anne Page promised due 
obedience, but she intended to deceive them both. She loved neither 
of the suitors chosen for her, and had, indeed, given her word and 
her affections to a youth named Fenton. Boys, disguised in the 
dresses that had been prepared with such secrecy, were to aid her in 
her purpose by stealing away with the unwelcome suitors, while the 
two lovers intended to hasten before a priest, be wedded in a trice, 
and return to beg the pardon of the parents who were so grossly 
to be deceived. 

With these cross purposes to outwit one another, joined only in 
the coming trick on Falstaff, the whole party repaired to the forest 
oak — the meeting place chosen by the two wives for the completion 
of what they intended. 

Falstaff entered and beheld only Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, 
for the others had all concealed themselves ; and with absurd expres- 
sions he commenced once more to woo them, shouting that the sky 
might rain potatoes and thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves ere he 
would be driven for a third time from their company. 

The children, dressed as fairies, then swarmed from their con- 
cealment and surrounded him, while the two dames fled in apparent 
terror; and Falstaff roared in fear and fell upon his face for he be- 



THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 287 

lieved these apparitions to be no other than uncanny sprites and 
goblins who had come to torment him. The supposed fairies 
worked their will on him, pinching him and burning his fingers with 
their tapers, until Page, Ford, their wives and neighbours came for- 
ward with gales of laughter to mock Falstaff, who sat up and stared 
about him with so dazed and bewildered an expression that merri- 
ment was doubled at the sight of him. 

Then Mistress Ford and Mistress Page In round words gave Fal- 
staff to know how they regarded him — whom the devil himself, 
they said, could not have made them love, were they resolved to 
thrust virtue from their doors by head and shoulders. And their 
neighbours and husbands vied with each other in contriving names 
for Falstaff and his roguery. They called him a hodge-pudding, a 
bag of flax, a puffed man, one that was as slanderous as Satan, and 
as poor as Job ; and they united in ridiculing him until he bade them 
use him as they would, he was dejected. 

" And yet be cheerful, knight," said Master Page, " thou shall eat 
posset to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my 
wife who now laughs at thee. Tell her that Master Slender hath 
married my daughter." 

As he spoke, however, young Slender entered, crying out that the 
one he took to be Anne Page was a great lubberly boy; — and the 
French doctor likewise burst upon them shouting he had been de- 
ceived and wedded to a country bumpkin. 

At that moment, when all were wondering greatly what had be- 
come of the right bride and who had married her, Anne Page and 
Master Fenton entered and implored forgiveness, while Falstaff, who 
began to recover his spirits, rejoiced loudly that those who came to 
mock at him were themselves deceived even as he had been, and he 
cried out that he was glad their arrows had glanced. 

This remark put Master Page and his wife in better mind. They 
were unwilling to take their ill fortune in worse part than the knight 
himself; they gave their daughter forgiveness, saying that her hus- 
band who could not be cast off should be embraced; and Mistress 



288 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Page bade every one of them, Sir John and the rest, to return and 
laugh the sport o'er by a country fire, — for Falstaff, by the good 
humour with which he had borne his misfortunes, was in part for- 
given by them all. 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 

KING FERDINAND of Navarre, when a young man, al- 
though fond of pleasure and good company and blessed with 
an easy light-hearted disposition, was possessed of thoughts 
beyond his years that caused him to consider all amusements wherein 
young men take delight as vanities suited only to the state of fools. 
As Ferdinand himself was not averse to these amusements but secretly 
delighted in them, he grew to detest himself for enjoying natural 
pleasures. Whenever he spent a night with jovial companions, or 
joined a hunting party, or whispered a pleasing conversation with 
some fair lady of his court, he would repent afterward of his idle 
and light behaviour; and longing to become famous, he resolved to 
devote his days to serious study and his nights to meditation, until 
he should acquire the name of a great scholar. 

For the purpose of pursuing his studies without fear of interrup- 
tion, the foolish, but ambitious Ferdinand resolved to turn his pleas- 
ant court for three years' time into a silent hermitage. All sports 
and pleasures were to be forbidden under pain of severe punishment; 
no men save those that came on grave and learned errands were to 
be admitted to his presence. As for women, who distracted the 
mind with holiday and giddy humours and were enemies to knowl- 
edge, Ferdinand swore that none should come within a mile of his 
royal palace. He imposed a dreadful penalty on any transgressor 
of this order, commanding that she lose her tongue — for the young 
king believed that no woman could conceive of any fate more ter- 
rible than to be deprived of her power of speech. And Ferdinand 
prepared to pass away from joy and all his royal pursuits, to forego 
his feasts, his friends, and his entertainments, all which, he said, he 
would find in sweeter guise in learned hours with his books and in the 
delights of a true scholar. 

289 



290 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Ferdinand had invited three of his own courtiers, whose names 
were Biron, Dumain and Longaville to share with him this monstrous 
period of study and to undergo the same severe rules of conduct that 
he had imposed upon himself. His invitation was, indeed, in the 
nature of a royal command that the lords whom he had chosen could 
not well disobey. Ferdinand spoke to them in high-sounding words 
about the sovereign virtues of fame, that all men, as he said, hunt 
for in their lives, to grace themselves, in the disgrace of death, with 
the hope that their fair deeds shall blunt Time's edge and make them 
heirs of all eternity. 

" Great conquerors," said Ferdinand, " for so you are, who over- 
come your affections and war against the huge army of the world's 
desires, in this paper are set forth all the strict laws that you have 
sworn to observe in living with me as fellow-scholars. You must 
now sign your names, and may honour be forever lost by him 
who violates the smallest particle of what is written here ! " 

" I am content," said Longaville, " the mind shall banquet though 
the body pine. The fast is, after all, for but three years, and three 
years soon are ended." 

" For my part," said Dumain, " away with the world's delights! 
Farewell to love and merry-making ! I shall find them in philos- 
ophy." But Biron, who was the most light-hearted of the three, 
disliked exceedingly to forego his customary pleasures for so long 
a period of time. Biron was fond of dancing and merry-making, he 
liked the feasts that Ferdinand had now forbidden, and few were 
better thought of by fair ladies than this madcap lord, who now 
must forego their society. Biron was withal more honest than his 
fellows, and he said to Ferdinand, " my liege, I have sworn to 
live and study here for three years' time, but there are other strict 
observances that I confess I do not love. To fast one day in every 
week and eat only one meal on every day beside, is a barren task, 
too hard to keep. — To sleep but three hours every night and not be 
seen to wink from morn to eve, will weary out our eyes with con- 
stant vigil. Far more willingly would I sleep all night and make 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 291 

a dark night too of half the day! And last, your Majesty, to see 
no woman! If I did swear to that, I swore only in jest." Bbon 
then gave many excellent arguments against the studies that the king 
proposed to enter, saying that plodders won no more than base 
authority from others' books, and that they who could name all the 
stars in heaven, had no more profit of their shining than ignorant, 
but happy men, who walked abroad beneath their light, not knowing 
what they were. Biron spoke with such excellent sense and wisdom 
in defending idleness and the pleasures that he was unwilling to give 
over, that the king cried out, " How well is he read to reason so 
wisely against reading! " and said that Biron's speech proved plainly 
that he had devoted himself to the very books that he pretended to 
despise. The king said also with some show of displeasure, " Biron, 
you may go and leave us. I release you from your vow. We will 
have no unwilling scholars, no reluctant disciples in our search for 
truth. As for you, my lords Dumain and Longaville, we will now 
proceed to our high purposes and commence our solemn fast." 

" No, my good lord," said Biron, " although I have spoken more 
for pleasure and ignorance than you can say for knowledge, yet will 
I stay with you, abide by my oath and keep the most severe penance 
of you all." He then asked the king to give him the paper, saying 
that he would sign to all the strict decrees that it contained. 

When Biron read the schedule that the king with great labour had 
prepared, he saw there the article that any who might be seen to talk 
with a woman within the term of three years should endure public 
shame and severe punishment. 

" This article, my lord," said Biron " you yourself must break, 
for the princess of France, as you well know, is coming hither in 
embassy to speak with you about the surrender of the province of 
Aquitaine. She is a maid of grace and complete majesty. Either 
you must forego your oath, or the admired princess vainly comes to 
see you." 

The king was greatly concerned at what Biron told him. 

" This was quite forgotten," said he. " My lords, what do you 



292 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

say? We must of force do away with our decree, and strong neces- 
sity compels us to break our vow." But the king decided that al- 
though he must converse with this foreign princess, still he would 
not allow her in his court. She must be lodged before his gates and 
treated, although with respect, more as if she had come to besiege 
his palace than on a friendly errand; and the king with Dumain and 
Longaville lamented the miscarriage of his plans, but Biron rejoiced 
openly in what had befallen. Biron said to himself, " I'll wager 
my head to any good man's hat these oaths and laws will prove an 
idle scorn and that the dames of France will laugh at us. How- 
ever, be it so ! For the sooner the king, my master, sees his folly, 
the better for us all." For, although Biron had resolved to keep his 
oath as long as any of the others, he hoped that this would not be 
long, and that the princess with her ladies would soon put to flight 
King Ferdinand's severe design. Ferdinand with his three lords 
then prepared to greet the princess who so seriously had shaken his 
intentions. 

There were with the princess three merry ladies named Katharine, 
Maria and Rosaline, to whom by some strange chance the three fel- 
low scholars of King Ferdinand were known. When the princess, 
who had heard of the king's strange vow, desired to know about his 
" book-men," as she laughingly termed his followers, each of her 
three ladies spoke of the lord that she particularly admired, praising 
him above all others until the princess said, " What does this mean? 
Are my ladies all in love with these stupid fellows that have for- 
sworn the society of women ? " And when the princess learned that 
the king would not admit her to his court, but determined to lodge 
her in the open fields, she was greatly annoyed and cried out that 
Ferdinand ought to be punished for such an oath, which was, she 
said, a sin to break but a far more deadly sin to keep. When the 
king came forward to greet her, the princess, therefore, received him 
coldly and listened to his excuses for her poor reception with a show 
of great displeasure. 

But it was to be remarked that while King Ferdinand was speak- 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 293 

ing with the princess, each of his three lords had singled out that 
particular lady who had praised him to her mistress — Longaville 
conversed with Maria, Dumain sought Katharine, while Biron en- 
gaged in sprightly conversation with Rosaline, whose wit was as keen 
as his own and who vanquished him completely in the encounter of 
words that soon arose between them. When Biron, about to take 
his farewell, wished her happiness and many lovers, she said tartly, 
" Amen, so you be none ! " and left him to retire with the king his 
master. And indeed the king had come off but little better from 
his argument with the princess, who, although she did not dare to 
treat him with the incivility that Rosaline had shown to Biron, none 
the less had proved him in the wrong about the matters of state, 
whereon she came to visit him. 

The king with his three followers then returned into his court 
to study, telling the princess he would visit her again ere she de- 
parted; but misfortune had indeed befallen Ferdinand's stern pur- 
pose to become a hermit, for he had now fallen in love with the 
French princess and his lords had likewise become the willing slaves 
of her three attendants. Most of all was Biron smitten by the 
charms of the beautiful and discourteous lady, Rosaline. 

Now was the toilful gaze of the great student changed to the 
ardent and despairing glance of the devoted lover, and now the 
minds of Ferdinand and his three lords were charged with thoughts 
far different from their former longings after fame. Undying fame 
they would have willingly exchanged for favour in their ladies' eyes, 
and they spent their time devising poems to meet the graces of 
their several paragons, seeking lonely places there to read what 
they had written, and exclaiming to the moon and stars upon the 
virtues of their loves. But although they had fallen so deeply into 
the toils of the princess and her attendant women, no one of them 
knew that any save himself was thus afflicted, for by assum- 
ing a more serious manner and a greater interest in the books 
that he now hated, each of them contrived to deceive the rest. To 
all appearance, Ferdinand and his three lords were never more 



294 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

devoted to their studies, never more firm in their resolve to banish 
vain delights and worldly pleasures than now, when they secretly 
desired to do away with books and go a-courting to the ladies of 
France. 

Biron composed a letter that he addressed " to the snow white- 
hand of the beauteous lady Rosaline," and being unable to visit 
her except in the company of the king, and desiring greatly that 
Rosaline receive this letter before the meeting that would take 
place on the day following, Biron disregarded all his vows and 
engaged a stupid clown to be his messenger to Rosaline. For 
Biron knew this clown, whose name was Costard, to be a fellow 
of such small wit that he would never give a thought upon his 
errand, which the faithless Biron desired well to be kept secret from 
his royal master. 

There was at the royal court a Spanish nobleman, Don Adriano 
de Armado, a fellow as conceited as his name was long, as proud 
as a peacock and as flighty as a weather-vane. The king had re- 
tained this nobleman partly for the purpose of a jester, believing 
that Armado, as they called him, could afford them with all necessary 
amusement in the time of their retirement. For Armado would 
relate many a proud tale of knights and noblemen of tawny Spain, 
and was, moreover, given to the most absurd expressions of English, 
using great words and pompous language that never failed to 
awaken laughter in all that heard him. \ 

Armado likewise had been forbidden to converse with any woman 
for three years, but as if to complete the confusion in Ferdinand's 
affairs, he had fallen in love with Jaquenetta, the dairymaid to the 
royal palace, and had himself written a love letter that set forth 
in high flown phrases Jaquenetta's charms, which were marvellous 
to his eyes. An imp of misfortune then caused Armado to give 
this letter for delivery to Costard, the same clown that Biron em- 
ployed as a messenger to Rosaline. Armado bade him bear it to 
Jaquenetta, who was the light of all men's souls and the heart of 
their desire; he gave to the clown a penny and a farthing, said that 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 295 

it was a generous sum, and bade him to bring word presently of 
the letter's safe delivery. 

The two letters were alike, and the clown could not hope to read 
the one from the other. So it was no more than natural that he 
should bear Armado's letter to Rosaline, while the loving words of 
Biron fell into the hands of Jaquenetta. 

Jaquenetta lost no time in telling of the treasure that had befallen 
her, and when her tale came to the ears. of a certain school-master 
who knew of the king's oath, he ordered her to deliver the letter 
immediately to Ferdinand; and Jaquenetta with Costard to accom- 
pany her set forth in search of him. For Ferdinand was not at 
his study, and none could tell of his whereabouts. 

The unaccustomed absence of King Ferdinand from the grave 
halls of his palace was easily explained. The king had composed 
a marvellous poem, a sonnet to the French princess, and had retired 
to a remote part of his park where he could read it at his leisure. 
The king delighted in exclaiming upon her virtues and in the lack 
of other hearers, took pleasure in reading his poems in the seclusion 
of his forest, with none but silent trees or occasional spotted deer 
to be his listeners. And while Costard sought for Ferdinand, he 
was wandering in the park with many sighs, exclaiming to the empty 
air upon the virtues of his mistress. 

It happened that while the king thus sought retirement, Biron 
also was strolling in the park. Not knowing of the mischief that 
had befallen his letter, he was happy in the thought that even then 
Rosaline was reading the expressions of his love. And Biron beheld 
the king, who walked as in a dream, approaching; and he saw in 
the king's hand a written paper, from which the king recited with 
great fervor. 

" What can this mean," thought Biron. " Is he in love? That 
is beyond my wildest hope. Shot, by Heaven ! Cupid has 
thumped him with his bird-bolt! I will hide behind a tree and 
hear it all." Biron concealed himself, while the king, who knew 
not of his presence, went on with his reading. And the king had 



296 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

indeed written a sonnet that was pleasant to hear, saying that the 
golden sun gave not so sweet a kiss to the fresh, morning dew upon 
the rose as did the eyebeams of his mistress, when they kissed the 
dew of tears that wet his cheeks. He compared the princess to the 
gleaming moon, and said that every tear he shed for love of her 
was like a coach that bore her gracious image. Many other pretty 
sayings were in the sonnet that Biron could not help admiring, 
even while he laughed at the king for composing it. 

" O queen of queens," sighed Ferdinand, " how far do you excel 
my written words ! You are fairer than the tongue of man can 
tell. No thought can think upon your marvellous beauty. How 
may you know my griefs? I will drop this paper here, where the 
sweet leaves will shade its folly; and here, if Love is kind, you will 
discover it." 

But when the king prepared to lay his poem upon the moss and 
leaves that covered the forest ground, a sudden noise arrested his 
attention, and glancing about he beheld — not Biron, but Longa- 
ville, who likewise bore a paper that he read aloud as he made his 
way through the thicket. And the king, who saw that Longaville 
was in the same plight as himself, was happy in this proof of his 
friend's inconstancy. " O sweet fellowship in shame ! " whispered 
the king. " I rejoice, Longaville, that you too have fallen into dis- 
grace. Here will I hide and listen to the outpouring of your love." 
The king, like Biron, then concealed himself, while the ardent words 
of Longaville in praise of his dear mistress seemed to burn upon the 
air. For Longaville had composed a sonnet fully as loving as 
Ferdinand's. 

Dumain was now the only one of Ferdinand's companions who 
had not revealed the state of his affections, and it seemed as if some 
mocking forest spirit had contrived this scene of disclosure, for by 
strange chance Dumain also was in the park, and now was guided 
to the spot where Ferdinand, Biron and Longaville were assembled. 
Here Dumain likewise gave instant proof of inconstancy to his 
sworn promise, but of undying faith to his beloved lady, exclaiming 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 297 

on her eyes, her hair, her features; and reading a dainty poem in 
praise of all these glories. And Dumain, who believed that he was 
utterly alone (for Longaville had hidden like the rest) cried out, 
" O would that the king, Biron and Longaville were lovers too ! 
Then I should be free from fault, for if all loved alike, none would 
offend; and then we might release ourselves from all these dreary 
vows." 

At these words, Longaville stepped forth from behind his tree 
and approached Dumain with an expression of great scorn upon 
his face. " Your love is far from charity, Dumain," said he. " I 
have heard every word of your great guiltiness. Believe me, Sir, 
I should blush to be caught napping as you have been." 

Before Longaville could accuse him further, the king also came 
from his place of concealment, secretly rejoicing, and the king feigned 
great anger at Longaville's hypocrisy, gazing upon his two guilty- 
loving comrades with severe displeasure. " Come, Sir," said the 
king, " I perceive that you are blushing. You offend twice as much 
as Dumain in chiding at him. For shame, Longaville — you who 
have laid your folded arms athwart your bosom to keep down your 
heart! I heard your guilty rhymes and noted well the passion of 
you both. You are equal in your love. ' Ay me ! ' says one, ' O 
Jove ! ' the other cries ! What will Biron say when he hears of 
this ? How will he spend his wit upon you ! How he will triumph, 
leap and laugh at both of you ! I would not have him know so 
much of me for all the world ! " 

"Now," cried Biron, "do I step forth to whip hypocrisy!" 
And while the king in guilty fear turned sharply at the sound of his 
voice, Biron, with a malicious smile upon his face, advanced in 
triumph, treading as if on air in his great joy to have learned the 
secrets of his companions. " My lord," said Biron to the king, 
" how do you dare to chide these worms for loving — you who are 
the most in love? Your eyes do make no coaches? No princess 
that we know of is treasured in your tears? Oh, what a scene of 
foolery have I beheld! With what strict patience have I lain here 



298 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

to see a king transformed into a gnat, and Solomon and Nestor 
both at play like idle school boys ! " Biron, who could talk no more 
for mirth, commenced to laugh until the forest rang with the most 
unwelcome merriment that Ferdinand had ever heard. 

" Your jest is too bitter," said Ferdinand sourly. " We have 
been betrayed to you." 

" Not so," said Biron, " it is I that have been betrayed. I that 
am honest; I that hold it sin to break my vow; — for when shall 
you see me write a thing in rhyme, or groan for love, or waste my 
time before a mirror in bedecking myself? Oh, I am betrayed 
indeed from my deep studies by inconstant men unworthy of my 
fellowship ! " 

As Biron spoke, he blessed his lucky stars that he had been the 
first upon the spot, and as his joy increased that none had discovered 
him, he indulged in even heavier blame upon the unhappy king and 
his shamefaced companions. But if Biron even for an instant had 
averted the triumphant gaze that he fixed upon them, he would 
have beheld Jaquenetta and Costard drawing near among the trees; 
and Costard held in his hand the tell-tale letter that Biron had 
given him for Rosaline. 

Costard gave this letter to the king, who, as yet unaware of 
what it contained, handed it to Biron, commanding him to read it in 
the presence of them all. And when Biron beheld his own letter 
he became crimson, and tore it into fragments, that he scattered on 
the ground. 

" How now," said Ferdinand, " why do you destroy it? " 

" It is a matter of no consequence," said Biron, " unworthy of an 
instant's attention." 

" Of that we will make sure," replied the king; and Longaville, 
who gathered up the fragments, saw that they were in Biron's writ- 
ing and even read Biron's name on one of them. 

When the king, Dumain and Longaville fixed questioning and 
suspicious glances upon Biron, they remarked his high colour and 
the confusion of his manner, and Biron, who knew that he could 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 299 

not hope to deceive them further, cried out, " Guilty, my lord, 
guilty! I confess. You three fools lacked me to make the com- 
pany. We are all pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die." 
Bidding Costard and Jaquenetta to begone, Biron then exclaimed, 
" Let us embrace ! Young blood will not obey an old decree, and 
we are all forsworn together." 

" What," said the king, who even now could not comprehend 
what had befallen, " did these torn lines show some love of yours? " 

" Did they, do you ask? " said Biron. " Who can refrain from 
loving that sees the heavenly Rosaline? What eagle-sighted 
eye can look upon her and remain unblinded by her majesty! " 

When the king heard Biron praise his mistress in so extravagant 
a fashion, he thought no more about his broken vow, and felt no 
emotion save anger that Biron should exalt the lady Rosaline above 
his own dear princess. 

"What mistaken fury has inspired you now?" said the king. 
" My love, the princess, is a gracious moon and Rosaline but an 
attendant star, scarce seen in her great glory. Truly love has made 
you blind and you know not what you speak! " And the recreant 
scholars one and all began to praise the ladies of their affections, 
arguing with each other in no uncertain terms as to their merits. 
The king said that Rosaline was as black as ebony (she being 
a trifle dark of her complexion) and Biron answered that the 
princess dared not stand in the rain for fear her colours should 
be washed away. Each of them said he knew not how the other 
could hold vile stuff so dear, and the dispute grew hot between 
them until the king said, " Come, enough ! We are agreed that 
we love these ladies. Biron now must prove our loving to be 
lawful and in accordance with our oath." So Biron then com- 
menced a lengthy speech to ease their wounded consciences, and 
he spoke even more wisely in defense of what they had done than 
he had argued against learning when they were prepared to enter 
their studies. 

Strengthened in heart, the king and his companions then resolved 



3 oo TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

to woo and win the ladies that they loved. They sent them costly 
gifts of jewels and determined to visit them disguised and offer them 
some merry entertainment. And the king and his companions pre- 
pared to bend their utmost energy to courting the fair ladies that 
had worked so great confusion among them. 

The princess, however, and her attendants had learned of the 
king's purpose, and knew likewise from the gifts that had been 
sent them that they were high in the affections of Ferdinand and his 
three noblemen. They were still angry, however, at the way these 
lords had welcomed them, and thought also that Ferdinand and 
his fellow-scholars should all be punished for so idly breaking the 
deep vows that they had sworn together. They planned, therefore, 
to receive the lovers coldly, to treat them with disdain and lack of 
courtesy until they should be made bitterly to repent the utter folly 
of their light behaviour. 

To add a relish to their jest, and to humiliate Ferdinand and his 
followers even more thoroughly, the ladies conceived the plan of 
dressing all alike and wearing masks so that the king and his com- 
panions could not tell the one from the other; and they cleverly 
exchanged the jewels that had been sent them, so that Rosaline wore 
the token that the king had given to her mistress, while the princess 
wore the string of pearls that Biron had presented to Rosaline. 
Maria and Katharine having also exchanged gifts, the deception was 
complete; and when the king and his three lords came before them, 
Biron addressed the princess in most ardent terms of true affection, 
the king and Rosaline conversed apart, while Dumain and Longa- 
ville likewise mistook each other's mistresses, and devoted their con- 
versation to the wrong ladies, who were in great difficulty to restrain 
their merriment. And the ladies treated the king and his followers 
with such keen jests and biting wit that they were forced soon to 
retire, returning in their own costumes the better to pursue their 
purposes. 

Then the princess and her ladies in no uncertain words gave the 
discomfited lords to know how they considered men that would so 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 301 

lightly perjure themselves to win their brides; but being, no doubt, 
a trifle pleased at their complete victory, and as the king and his 
followers, in spite of their shortcomings, were very eligible suitors, 
the ladies agreed to marry them a year and a day thence. They 
imposed on them, however, a most severe penalty; for until the day 
of the weddings, the king and his followers must continue in their 
fasts and studies. And the keen-witted Rosaline added even an- 
other penance that her lover must perform. For Biron, whose 
excessive merriment was distasteful to her, must spend his time in 
cheering up the heavy spirits of the sick, and jest for a whole year at 
the bedsides of the unfortunate. 

When the French ladies had departed, Ferdinand and his three 
lords addressed themselves with right good will to the tasks that 
had been laid upon them. The princess and her ladies in high 
good humour returned to France and without doubt the king and 
his followers appeared there in due course of time, to marry them. 



T" 



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 

HE ancient city of Troy had been besieged for seven years 
by the Greek kings, who had come with their bravest sol- 

-*- diers and most terrible engines of war to overthrow the 
Trojan state. The object of this war was to revenge a wrong 
done to Menelaus, the king of Sparta, by a Trojan prince named 
Paris — for Paris had persuaded Helen, the beautiful wife of 
Menelaus, to fly from her husband into Troy, where the Trojans 
barred their gates against Menelaus who came in pursuit of her. 
The Trojans not only had refused to admit Menelaus, but to give 
up Helen who remained in their city with Paris. Menelaus had 
vowed vengeance, and assembling the other kings of Greece pre- 
pared with them to capture Helen if they levelled Troy to the 
ground in taking her. 

Hence it was that a terrible and bloody war had raged between 
the Trojans and the Greeks with varying fortunes, for the Trojans 
who were as brave as their besiegers not only kept the Greeks from 
their ramparts, but did battle with them on equal terms without the 
city gates; while the Greeks on their part could not be driven to 
their ships, or compelled to abandon the grim siege with which they 
had invested Troy. 

But the Greeks, who came from different kingdoms, in the way 
of such allies were prone to jealousy of each other and therefore 
did not fight with the complete and undivided power that they might 
have directed against their enemies. A quarrel among them had 
caused their most famous warrior, Achilles, to retire in anger from 
the conflict, telling the others that for his part, the war was ended 
and that the Trojans might drive them all into the sea before he 
would draw sword again. While the Greeks were thus compelled 
to fight without their mightiest soldier, Achilles lay idly in his tent, 

302 



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 303 

listening to his boy friend, Patroclus, whom he caused to imitate, 
one after one, the Greek commanders, shouting with laughter as 
Patroclus, with scornful mimicry, would act to him the aged leader, 
Nestor, or the proud Agamemnon, or the crafty, scheming Ulysses, 
or the blockhead, Ajax; and in this idleness of Achilles the Greeks 
commenced to lose heart, until it seemed as though without his aid 
the Trojans must sooner or later be victorious. 

The Trojans, on the other hand, possessed a hero as terrible as 
Achilles and of a spirit far more noble. The name of this chief 
was Hector. With Paris he was son to Priam, the Trojan king. 
But Hector was mightier by far than Paris, or, indeed, than any 
of his brothers, although the Trojans hoped that one day, Troilus, 
their youngest prince, would become as great as Hector. So strong 
a warrior was Hector, so skilled in every form of war, withal of 
a nature wise and temperate, that he became the chief pillar and 
support of his beleaguered city. And Hector, who was so brave 
a soldier that the meaning of the word fear was unknown to him 
on the battle-field, feared deeply for the future of his city, and 
thought with sorrow on the petty cause of such a war, where, on 
either side, hundreds of noble warriors had fallen to gratify the 
idle affection of Paris, who showed himself more disposed to remain 
within the walls with Helen than in armour to meet the enemies 
that he himself had stirred against his city. 

Troilus, the young brother of Hector, and himself, in spite of 
his youth, a tried and valiant soldier, loved a maiden better even 
than Paris loved Helen, and the beauty of this maiden was held 
by many to rival if not to exceed the radiant loveliness of Helen 
herself. The name of her that Troilus loved was Cressida, and 
she believed that no other, not even Hector, was so brave, handsome 
and noble as the youth, Troilus. But Cressida did not allow Troilus 
to become aware of her affection for him, thinking, as all maidens, 
that his passion would be increased in believing her unattainable. 
Accordingly she feigned scorn whenever Troilus was mentioned, 
saying there were dozens such as he, comparing him to no ad- 



304 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

vantage with the mighty Hector, and even ranking Paris before her 
lover. 

The father of Cressida was a priest who had forsaken Troy 
with great treachery to aid the Greeks against his native city. In 
his desertion, the Trojans had given Cressida to the care of her 
aged uncle, Pandarus; and Troilus, who was not aware of Cressida's 
secret affection for him, begged Pandarus to aid him in his love 
and soften her heart until she looked on him with greater favour. 

Pandarus did indeed attempt to influence his niece to favour 
Troilus, as he had done constantly hitherto, being in part the cause 
of the mutual affection between them, which he sought to inflame 
on every opportunity. But Pandarus did this from no worthy 
motive or any benevolence for either Cressida or Troilus, thinking 
less of the good parts of Troilus than of his princely rank and the 
rewards to be gained by serving him. For the nature of Pandarus 
was base and incapable of any affection or goodness. 

When the warriors would enter the city, however, after their 
daily battle with the Greeks, Pandarus, in the hope to influence 
Cressida to fall in love with Troilus, would bid her to look upon them 
as they passed, saying, " Mark yonder, where Troilus goes. Look 
you how his sword is bloodied and his helm more hacked than 
Hector's. He is an admirable youth." And Pandarus would say 
that if he had a sister who were one of the graces, or a daughter 
rivalling the perfections of a goddess he would give her up to 
Troilus, praising him in most exalted terms and giving frequent 
hints of his devotion to Cressida. But Cressida, who thought in 
secret how poorly her uncle could do credit to the noble figure of 
her lover, pretended none the less to mock at Pandarus for praising 
him, and when she held Troilus most dear, she would laugh at him 
with open scorn and assume complete unconcern as to his presence. 

Pandarus, however, was too sly to be deceived long by Cressida 
in such a manner; her every indifference to a youth of the good 
parts of Troilus, while she looked with favour on his brothers, was 
sufficient proof for Pandarus to guess the secret state of her affec- 



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 305 

tions; and when he saw that Cressida was becoming daily more in 
love with the young prince whom she pretended to despise, he re- 
solved to bring the two together in a secret meeting where he knew 
that their love would prove too strong to be withheld, and that 
Cressida would be forced to reveal her real affection. 

For this purpose Pandarus brought Troilus to his own house, 
where, to the youth's great joy Cressida at last declared her love 
for him in ardent terms, saying that all her indifference in the past 
had been merely feigned to render Troilus more certainly her own. 
Troilus replied that he loved Cressida so truly that in time to come 
all lovers in seeking to prove their love should speak of his; all 
great comparisons, he said, should be topped by saying, " As true as 
Troilus " ; and with tender words the lovers swore true faith to one 
another. Cressida said that if she ever swerved a hair from the 
devoted love of Troilus, she wished that in time to come maidens 
in upbraiding falsehood could think of no stronger reproach than 
to say, " As false as Cressida." With many other and similar 
protestations they pledged lasting affection, while Pandarus, much 
delighted, bade them speak their minds in telling of their love, 
which became them so well, he said, that no outspoken pledge or 
any token could be too dear as proof of it. No lovers, continued 
Pandarus, should ever love so well as the two whom he had brought 
together with such pains; were it to be otherwise he wished with 
Cressida that his name might become a term of scorn forever, so 
that all pitiful persons who went on lovers' errands and aided them 
in their desires should be called " Pandars." 

The happiness of the two lovers was hardly brought to this good 
issue, however, when misfortune befell them, for Cressida's father, 
who had been false to Troy, persuaded the Greeks to demand his 
daughter from the Trojans and to offer in exchange for her a 
Trojan prisoner named Antenor. Antenor was a person of such 
importance that the Trojans would have given one of their own 
princes to gain his liberty, for Antenor was skillful in war and had 
invented many ways whereby the Trojans had been able to defend 



3 o6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

their city against their besiegers. Priam, the king of Troy, con- 
sented to this exchange, and the Greeks sent one of their leaders, 
who was called Diomed, with Antenor into Troy, whence Diomed 
was to return with Cressida and bring her to her father's tent in 
the Greek encampment. 

It happened that Diomed entered the city on this errand while 
Troilus was still with Cressida at the house of Pandarus; the lovers 
were made aware of his unwelcome approach and forced to separate; 
and it was not long before they were compelled to bid each other 
a speedy farewell, which they did with added sorrow at the short 
space of time allowed them for their parting. 

Troilus said, however, that he would seek out Cressida in the 
Grecian tents even if he must break into their lines by force to com- 
plete his purpose, and he besought her to remain forever faithful 
to him. " I speak not in fear of your true faith," said Troilus, 
" for I will challenge Death himself upon its certainty. Be but true, 
and I will see you, for I will bribe the Grecian sentinels to let me 
pass through their lines by night to visit you," and stricken with 
sudden grief that they must part, Troilus added once again, " but 
yet, Cressida, be true." 

" Surely," said Cressida, " you do not love me, or else you would 
never say that I could be otherwise than true and faithful to 
you." 

" Hear why I speak it," replied Troilus, " for no fault of yours 
but a kind of godly jealousy makes me afraid. The Grecian youths 
are given to love-making and are masters of the graces that please 
ladies. They are able to play at subtle games, to sing, dance and 
converse artfully — while I myself, like all the Trojans, am un- 
versed in these accomplishments." 

Troilus gave Cressida a sleeve to wear in his absence, bidding 
her to keep it always as a token of their dear affection, and he bade 
her then to take farewell for they must part. To Diomed, who 
now came forward to accompany Cressida from the city, Troilus 
said that he must guard her with a tender care, adding that if 



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 307 

Diomed were ever at the mercy of his sword and should speak the 
name of Cressida it should become a talisman to save his life. 

No more unfortunate speech could have been made to Diomed, 
who was a proud soldier, esteeming himself far greater at arms than 
Troilus; and turning to Cressida Diomed beheld that she was fair 
above all other women. He said then that the lustre in her eye 
and the heaven in her cheek should plead for tenderness at his 
hands far better than the words of any Trojan. For Diomed had 
fallen in love with Cressida the instant that he beheld her, and 
her beauty had awakened wonder and admiration within him. 

Cressida then bade Troilus farewell with an affection seemingly 
as great as his, and was conveyed by Diomed to the Greek tents 
where her father awaited her. 

Now whether the gods that watched over the siege of Troy had 
willed that Cressida should become untrue to Troilus in requital 
of Helen's treachery to the Greek Menelaus, or whether the false 
blood of Cressida's father, who had sought to betray his city, was 
at war within her heart with any true and steadfast affection cannot 
be told; but Cressida no sooner arrived at the Greek tents than she 
suffered Diomed to make advances of love to her, and in a space 
of time so short as to be almost incredible, Cressida loved Diomed 
as well as ever she had loved the deceived Troilus. 

At the time when Cressida had been taken out of Troy by Diomed, 
the Trojan warrior, Hector, in accordance with an ancient custom, 
determined to maintain upon his sword the beauty of his wife, An- 
dromache; and Hector sent among the Greeks a challenge to 
single combat, proclaiming that if any Greek esteemed his mistress 
better than ease or life, to him Hector would say that Andromache 
was twice as fair, and prove his words by defeating him in battle. 
This challenge, while general in its tone was known to intend the 
great Achilles, for no brighter fame could be won by Hector than 
to overthrow this mighty champion of the Greeks. 

The Greek leaders feared, however, that if Achilles should slay 
Hector, his pride, already great, would become unbearable; while 



308 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

if Hector should slay Achilles, their chief hope and strength would 
be forever lost to them by his death. They decided, therefore, to 
make a pretence of drawing lots to choose who should answer Hec- 
tor's challenge, and the lots were to be artfully arranged so that 
the choice should fall on Ajax — a blow in itself at Achilles' vanity, 
for Ajax while a powerful soldier was far inferior to Achilles. 

It happened, however, that Ajax, who was chosen in this manner, 
was by a strange chance a distant kinsman to Hector, for in the 
veins of Ajax Trojan and Greek blood were strangely intermingled. 
On this account, Hector refused to fight with his full power against 
Ajax, or to continue long in the combat, for, as Hector said, his 
sword should never drain kindred and Trojan blood, and although 
Ajax were an arrant Greek, he must not slay him. So, after a short 
trial at arms where neither won advantage, Hector bade Ajax to 
put aside his sword and embrace him as a kinsman, for Ajax, Hector 
said, was worthy of his Trojan blood with the heart and strength 
of a brave soldier. 

The truce that had been made between the contending armies, 
who desired to witness this combat, did not expire until dawn of 
the next day, and Achilles invited Hector to his tent, eager to behold 
unarmed the mightiest champion of Troy, who was considered by 
many to be greater even than Achilles himself. Achilles, looking 
on Hector and beholding his great limbs and soldierly appearance, 
felt a sudden desire for battle come upon him and determined that 
in spite of his vow never again to draw sword against the Trojans, 
on the next day to seek Hector on the battle-field and slay him. 
Achilles bade Hector to drink with him as a friend that night and 
taste his wine, for on the morrow he must assuredly taste his sword. 
And Hector was rejoiced that at last he was to do battle with the 
great Achilles, and asked his hand upon that match, bidding Achilles 
guard himself well when they should meet. Hector swore to slay 
Achilles, and he called the gods to witness that he would keep his 
oath. 

Troilus, in his great love for Cressida, had accompanied Hector 



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 309 

to the Greek encampment, and while Hector was being feasted and 
threatened at the tent of Achilles, Troilus besought Ulysses, a Greek 
leader, to take him to the spot where he might behold Cressida ; 
but while Ulysses promised to lead him there, he said what sounded 
strangely in the ears of Troilus — that Diomed was feasting there 
that night, and that Diomed looked neither on heaven nor earth, 
but spent his loving gaze all on the fair Cressida, who seemed in no 
way loath to make return of his affection. Ulysses then asked Troi- 
lus if Cressida had not some lover in Troy, and what might be 
her name and reputation in the city. 

" My lord," said Troilus, " she both did love and have her 
love returned. I beseech you guide me to her, for I find myself 
unable to believe what you have spoken." And Troilus could not 
think that Cressida had been false to him, until with his own eyes 
he should behold this to be true. 

Ulysses, who knew that even then Diomed was in company with 
Cressida, bade Troilus to follow him in silence and to stand far 
from the torches, when he should soon perceive, Ulysses said, that 
his words had been spoken truly. And when Troilus came to the 
tent that was Cressida's dwelling, he beheld to his grief and amaze- 
ment, that Cressida was exchanging vows of love with Diomed. 

While Ulysses with his utmost powers was attempting to restrain 
Troilus from disclosing himself at this hateful sight, and breaking 
forth in bitter rage against Cressida and Diomed, Cressida gave 
Diomed the very sleeve that Troilus had bidden her so tenderly 
to keep as a pledge of his true faith, and she told Diomed to behold 
the token well, for he who had given it to her lay even at that 
moment thinking of the sleeve and her. Diomed said that he would 
wear it on his helm in battle and grieve the spirit of the Trojan 
who had owned it, for Cressida refused to tell him that the sleeve 
had belonged to Troilus; and Troilus vowed that the sleeve on 
Diomed's helmet should be the cause of his speedy death, for he 
would challenge him although the whole Greek army should oppose 
him. And before Troilus was able to upbraid Cressida for her 



3 io TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

faithlessness he was compelled to return to Troy and arm himself, 
for in the revelling at Achilles' tent and Cressida's faithless encoun- 
ter with Diomed, the night had passed, and both the armies were 
again preparing for their daily conflict. 

It was destined, however, that Diomed should not then fall be- 
fore the sword of Troilus, for a terrible misfortune befell the city of 
Troy in the battle that began at dawn. Achilles, who was deter- 
mined to slay Hector, cared not if he accomplished his purpose in 
open battle or by treachery. Indeed Achilles was more inclined to 
treachery than to open combat, for once during the day, when Hec- 
tor, terrible in armour, came upon him, Achilles had avoided clos- 
ing with him. But later, when Hector, wearied with fighting, had 
laid aside his sword and shield, Achilles encountered him, and 
Achilles bade him to behold how ugly night came breathing at the 
heels of the setting sun, for even so, he said, death was approach- 
ing Hector, and like the sun his life had run its course. The fol- 
lowers of Achilles then struck Hector to the ground, and Achilles 
tied the body to his chariot-wheels and dragged it beneath the walls 
of Troy shouting that Hector had been slain by his hand. 

In the death of Hector the Trojans became partly aware of the 
terrible fate that threatened them, and Troilus in the horror at his 
death and in rage against Achilles, thought no more of his mis- 
guided affection for Cressida. And whether Diomed grew weary 
of Cressida and cast her off or what became of her cannot be known, 
for in the death of Hector the tale of Troilus and Cressida was 
ended. 



CORIOLANUS 

A QUARREL had arisen in Rome between the patricians, 
who were noblemen, and the men of more common birth 
who were called plebeians. The plebeians had demanded 
gifts of the corn that lay stored in the city capitol; and when re- 
fused they filled the streets with riots and confusion, casting the city 
into a grave disorder. 

More than any other nobleman the plebeians hated Caius Marcius, 
a patrician who had often spoken bitterly against them to the senate, 
saying that they deserved no better of the state than to be beaten 
soundly to their homes and would be had he the ordering of it, aye, 
Marcius had declared, or slain, and their bodies piled in the market 
place. And Marcius had called them dogs and dissentious rogues, 
hares that should be lions, curs that liked neither peace nor war, 
becoming proud by the one and frightened by the other, untrust- 
worthy as coals of fire on ice, or hailstones in the sun. 

Marcius was not wholly unjustified in his contempt for the ple- 
beians, for in the way of ignorant men they were prone to receive 
all benefits and yet give nothing in return. Whenever possible they 
would refuse to fight against Rome's enemies, but would call with 
the same breath for a share in Roman government, or without rea- 
son demand the food laid by for times of war and famine. Marcius, 
however, did not hate the plebeians only for their base and un- 
soldierlike qualities; he despised them also for their humble birth, 
for his nature was so proud that he could not endure the failings 
of weaker and lowlier persons than himself. He believed also that 
in allowing the people any authority, the patricians were sowing 
rank rebellion in the city, and that the plebeians in tasting a little 
power would soon grow to crave it as some sweet but fatal drug 
that poisoned them, until Rome must fall before their greedy in- 

3il 



3 i2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

diligence and the vulgar, short-sighted policies of the rabble. Mar- 
cius, therefore, denied that as fellow-citizens the plebeians had any 
rights or privileges; he regarded them with scorn as slaves, and 
treated them with unworthy intolerance. 

The rash pride and fiery opposition shown to the plebeians by 
Marcius, was regretted not a little by the wiser patricians, chiefly 
by a nobleman of age and experience named Menenius Agrippa. 
Whenever Marcius insulted the plebeians, Agrippa would endeavour 
to allay their anger, for Marcius, although intemperate in scorn, 
was a soldier of great achievement, endowed with manly and 
Roman virtues, and Agrippa loved him as a son. Agrippa feared, 
however, that pride would overthrow Marcius' fortunes, and on all 
opportunities would praise him to the plebeians, falling into con- 
versation with them, as though by chance, of Marcius' noble quali- 
ties, or reminding them of some battle where Marcius had 
distinguished himself. 

It was Agrippa also who once told to the plebeians the wonderful 
fable where he compared the Roman senate and nobility to the belly 
of a man, and the plebeians themselves to the corporal parts that 
served it, — to the kingly head and vigilant eye ; the sturdy coun- 
sellor, the heart; the leg that bore the body as a steed, and the 
tongue, its trumpeter. Once, said Agrippa, these members of the 
body all revolted against the belly for whom they were condemned to 
labour, as they believed, without return or service on the belly's part, 
but they soon found out that the despised belly was the source of 
all their power, and that without its aid they scarce were able to 
bestir themselves. As the belly laboured for them constantly, al- 
though in ways that were, perhaps, unseen, just so, said Agrippa, 
did the senators of Rome apply their wisdom to the common good, 
— even to the foolish plebeians that rose in anger against them. 

It so happened that in the very hour of this outbreak on the part 
of the plebeians, word came to Rome that a people called the 
Yolscians under the leadership of a terrible warrior, Aufidius, were 
devastating the whole countryside with fire and sword, preparing 



CORIOLANUS 313 

even to march on Rome and besiege the city. Cominius, a Roman 
general, was given troops to crush the Volscians, and Marcius ac- 
companied him as second in command — a fortunate station, for 
should disaster befall the Romans, the blame would all be laid 
upon Cominius; but should they triumph, Marcius would reap the 
praise, so great was his reputation as a soldier. Marcius determined 
to slay with his own hand the Volscian leader, Aufidius, for aware 
of his own great skill and courage, he deemed Aufidius his only 
worthy opponent. And Marcius declared that were the entire world 
in peace, he would revolt to make his war upon Aufidius alone. 

Marcius had a noble mother, Volumnia, who was in a large 
measure the cause of his great fame and soldierly reputation. 
Volumnia had trained him to think that he must exceed all other 
men, or deem himself disgraced. When he was but a boy, Volumnia 
sent him to a cruel war, whence he returned with his brows bound 
with oak as a sign of courage. Volumnia rejoiced in the coming 
conflict which would give her son yet another chance to win renown 
and honour; and while Marcius was at the war, she went abroad 
with calm and unmoved demeanour to visit with her neighbours, or, 
with a serene countenance, remained at home to sew and spin, 
exhorting his wife, Virgilia, to do the like and to show no sign of 
the fear that tortured her in her husband's absence. 

The severe training that Marcius had received from his Roman 
mother was well justified in the war against the Volscians, where 
he outdid all his former feats at arms. When the Romans had 
retreated, it was Marcius who drove them back to the conflict 
manifesting bravery that was the wonder of his soldiers. He fol- 
lowed the Volscians single-handed through the gates of a town 
called Corioli, whence he came forth alive by a miracle of fortune; 
and laying siege to Corioli, Marcius struck it like a thunderbolt and 
captured the city. He then went to the aid of his general, Cominius, 
who was sore pressed by the Volscian soldiers, and with the aid of 
Marcius, Cominius was rescued and the Volscians put to flight, 
leaving the Romans everywhere victorious. But Marcius had not 



3 H TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

succeeded In slaying Aufidius, although he had engaged with him in 
combat, for a company of Volscians rescued their general when 
Marcius had beaten him to his knees and was prepared to deal him 
a fatal blow. And Marcius regretted Aufidius' escape more keenly 
than he rejoiced in the success now crowning the Roman banners — 
a success due wholly to his own courageous action. 

There was great joy among the Romans at their victory, and 
Cominius ordered that Marcius, who had saved the day, should be 
dignified by the surname of Coriolanus, whereby he should be called 
forever after as a token of respect and admiration. The soldiers 
with acclamations hailed him by this honourable title, and returned 
victorious to Rome bearing him with triumph into the city. 

Many of the plebeians had served in the army under Marcius 
and witnessed his bravery. In the manner of ignorant men, their 
former hatred of his scorn was changed to thoughtless wonder at 
his present achievement, and when it was proposed that Marcius be 
given the office of consul, it appeared that he would have the unre- 
served approval of the plebeians which was necessary for any 
claimant to that office. Marcius, however, now regarded the ple- 
beians with greater contempt than ever, having been compelled to 
drive them to battle by blows and to suppress them in mutinies and 
revolts where, as he said, they showed more courage than against 
the enemy. 

There was a custom in Rome that he who would be consul must 
stand in humble garments in some public place and beg of the 
plebeians their consent to his election. Marcius wished to avoid 
this custom and besought Agrippa to tell him some means to escape 
it, but Agrippa answered angrily, saying that avoidance was not 
to be thought of and bidding Marcius prepare with all speed to 
meet the plebeians. It was a custom, Agrippa said, that all hon- 
ourable men had conformed to, and he asked why Marcius should 
be freed from it. He prayed his friend to put aside such foolish 
arrogance which would lose him all his fame and fortune; and 



CORIOLANUS 315 

Marcius was compelled to don the loose robe worn on such an 
occasion, and go forth to the market-place to meet the plebeians. 

Among the plebeians there were public officers called tribunes, 
two of whom, Sicinius and Brutus, liked it but ill that Marcius was 
to be elected to the office of consul which would give him great con- 
trol over the people whom he so despised. Sicinius and Brutus also 
had observed his unwillingness to meet the plebeians in the market- 
place, and they plotted to anger the plebeians against him on the 
first opportunity. They hoped that in the public meeting where 
Marcius must ask of the people their consent to his election, his 
pride might show itself and become a handle to their purpose, " For 
he will beg," said Sicinius, " as if he does despise the favour he 
requests " ; and Brutus answered, saying that a man as proud as 
Marcius must feel shame so to demean himself before the multitude. 
Sicinius said that he sincerely hoped Marcius would give the ple- 
beians some cause of offence, for otherwise they would be undone 
in electing for their consul one whose chief purpose was to destroy 
them. 

In the meanwhile Marcius in his humble garments had prepared 
for the ordeal in store for him, but he could no more frame fair 
speeches for the ears of the plebeians than he could put his heart 
into such a purpose. Although in humble garb, he accosted the 
plebeians proudly, saying that his merit, not his desire, had brought 
him in such a pass before them, for it had never been his choice, 
he said, to trouble the poor with begging. And while he spoke to 
them in civil words asking his election, he did so with a doubtful 
manner and veiled contempt that made the slow-witted plebeians 
wonder if he were ridiculing them. Nevertheless they consented 
to his election; but Marcius thanked them then with even less 
concealment of his scorn, telling them that as he now had their 
approval, which he was pleased to call their " alms," he would 
bid them adieu and trouble them no further. He prepared then to 
be invested with the power and the name of a Roman consul. 



3 i6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Sicinius and Brutus, in the meanwhile, came among the plebeians 
and asked them in what manner Marcius had requested their ap- 
proval. The plebeians said that he had done so with concealed 
contempt, difficult to explain precisely, but clearly evident both in 
his words and manner. " Then you were childish," said Sicinius, 
" to consent that he should become your ruler," and Brutus called 
them fools to yield up power into the hands of one who would use 
it for their injury. With clever accusations the two tribunes kin- 
dled a flame of anger against Marcius, until the people revoked the 
consent they had but lately given to his election and filled the mar- 
ket-place to oppose his way to the senate house, crying out that a 
devil should be consul sooner than Caius Marcius who despised 
them. 

Sicinius and Brutus then prepared to halt the patricians who were 
conveying Marcius to the hall of state where his new title was to 
be given him, and they contrived to do so in a manner to awaken 
him to anger, hoping that in his rage he would injure himself even 
further among the plebeians. When Marcius was well on his way 
to the senate house, Sicinius and Brutus forbade him curtly to go 
further; when he demanded their reason, they replied, as he con- 
sidered, with great insolence, calling out for the plebeians to lay 
hands on him for resisting them; and when Marcius in a storm of 
rage burst forth into a fiery tirade against plebeians and tribunes 
alike, abusing them with keen scorn and invective aptly chosen, the 
tribunes commanded that he should be hurled from the Tarpeian 
precipice, condemning him to the death that the Romans were 
used to inflict upon their criminals. A riot then took place, for 
the plebeians fell upon the patricians with stones and clubs, seeking 
to slay Marcius, until the patricians with drawn swords drove the 
enraged and shouting rabble to a distance. 

In great distress Agrippa then besought Marcius to retire to 
his house while yet there was time, for the plebeians were rallying 
to make another attack upon him, and he persuaded Marcius with 
great difficulty to leave the market-place, for Marcius was prepared 



CORIOLANUS 317 

to defy the plebeians single-handed if need be, so great was his 
anger against them. Agrippa spoke artfully to the plebeians as 
they returned, telling them that it was ever the way of soldiers 
to be rough of tongue and that Marcius intended them no harm 
by his ungentle words. If they would have patience, said Agrippa, 
he himself would fetch Marcius to answer in due order all their 
accusations. The old man then hurried to the house of Marcius, 
bidding him in the name of all the gods to come forth and speak 
the plebeians fair and show them some appearance of respect, for 
even yet they might be pacified. Volumnia joined her entreaties 
to Agrippa's, praying Marcius to go in humility and kneel before 
them, for action, as she said, was eloquent in such a turmoil. She 
bade him tell them that he was a soldier who did not possess the 
softer way of speech that was as fit for him to use as theirs to claim 
— thus, she said, her son should win them utterly and gain the office 
he desired; and Cominius entered saying that he had just been to 
the market-place, where Marcius even now might pacify the plebeians 
if he would speak to them with apparent gentleness. Marcius at last 
consented to their entreaties, although he said that the tears of 
schoolboys must water his cheeks and a beggar's tongue be placed 
between his lips for such a purpose. Still, he prepared to go, and 
with the patricians he made his way a second time to the market- 
place, where the plebeians were awaiting him. 

The tribunes, however, beholding the anger with which Marcius 
had regarded them, had resolved to charge him with the crime 
of treason to his country, for they believed, and rightly, that such 
an accusation would cast him into another violent passion in the 
presence of the multitude, who in their turn would be further in- 
flamed against him. So, when Marcius returned to the market- 
place in company with the patricians, the tribunes addressed him 
haughtily, asking him if he were content to listen to his crimes 
and suffer lawful censure for such faults as should be proved against 
him. 

Even then new anger had commenced to rise in the heart of 



318 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Marcius, and he replied that he would be content when first the 
tribunes should inform him why the people had refused the office 
of consul that they had promised to him. The tribunes answered 
that he was there to be judged, not to ask the why and wherefor 
of his just disgrace. They charged him then with plots to win 
an undue power in the state, and called him a traitor to the people. 

On the disgraceful term of traitor being applied to him, Marcius 
could contain himself no longer, but for a second time burst into 
anger against plebeians and tribunes, calling Sicinius an injurious 
liar, which he would do, he said, were twenty thousand deaths the 
penalty. When Agrippa reminded him of his promise Marcius 
refused to hear him, calling out for the powers of Hell to take the 
plebeians, exclaiming that the curs could pronounce upon him death, 
exile, flogging or imprisonment, whatever might please them best, 
for he would not buy their mercy with one fair word. 

The tribunes had ordered the plebeians to support them in what- 
ever sentence they should impose on Marcius. They said now that 
on account of his former services they had decided to spare his 
life, but they condemned him, none the less, to instant and eternal 
banishment, forbidding him ever to re-enter Rome on pain of death. 
The plebeians then raised their voices in approval of the tribunes' 
sentence, shouting at Marcius with scorn and derision, while many 
crowded to the city gates to hoot him into exile. 

Thus with intolerance and anger as great as his own, Marcius 
was driven from the city that he had saved. As for the plebeians, 
he defied them bitterly with the wish that they might ever continue 
to banish their defenders; and taking leave of his wife and mother 
in great sorrow, Marcius turned his back upon his country. 

When Marcius was banished, he bethought him of his enemy, 
Aufidius, who had retired, after his defeat by the Romans, to the 
city of Antium, where he won great influence in state affairs and 
was honoured by the people; and Marcius was determined to seek 
Aufidius, not for the purpose of further combat, but to offer his 
services against the Romans who had cast him from their gates. 



CORIOLANUS 319 

It was of small consequence to Marcius that Aufidius and the 
people of Antium might instantly slay him. Far greater than such 
fear was his desire to revenge himself upon the Romans, which 
could be accomplished only through alliance with their enemies. 

Aufidius on his part had thought constantly about his great enemy, 
Marcius, whom he was resolved to be revenged upon; and he would 
often dream that he and Marcius again were in deadly combat with 
each other, locked in a fierce embrace or giving and exchanging 
dangerous blows. Although Aufidius imagined these encounters 
only in his sleep, his dreams were so real to him that he would 
awaken from them fainting with exhaustion as though he had 
indeed been striving in battle and they served well to keep alive 
and hot the hatred that he bore to Marcius. 

A feast was being given by Aufidius to the senators and states- 
men of Antium, when Marcius in ragged garments entered his 
house. When the servants attempted to repel him, Marcius drove 
them away, demanding to speak with their master, and struck with 
fear at his manner they bore word to Aufidius that a mad stranger 
was within who insisted on seeing him, until Aufidius quitted the 
banquet hall and came face to face with Marcius, demanding his 
name and why with such insolence he forced his way into a private 
dwelling at such a time. 

Marcius replied that his name was most unmusical to Volscian 
ears and harshest in its sound of all the world to Aufidius, who 
had good cause to know it well. 

" You have a grim appearance," said Aufidius, " your face bears 
command. Though your garments are torn, you show nobility. 
Tell me your name, I pray you." 

Marcius answered, saying defiantly that the harm he had 
worked upon Aufidius and all Volscians was witnessed by his surname 
of Coriolanus. The nobles of his city, as he said, had basely 
deserted him, allowing slaves to hoot him forth from Rome in ban- 
ishment. This disgrace had brought him to the dwelling of Aufidius, 
where, if he feared death, he would not stand, for of all men liv- 



3 2o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

ing Aufidius was the most dangerous to him. But, said Marcius, 
if Aufidius and the people of Antium had a heart to be revenged 
on Rome, his misery would serve them well, for he would fight 
against his cankered country with the anger of the under fiends. 
If they doubted this, he continued, he offered Aufidius his throat 
to cut which not to do would prove Aufidius no better than a fool, 
as Marcius had ever followed him with hate and could not live 
but to his shame unless he lived to do him service. 

" O Marcius," cried Aufidius, " every word you have spoken 
has weeded from my heart a root of ancient envy. If Jupiter should 
speak divine things I would not believe them more true than your 
own words." He said that even then there was an expedition on 
foot against the Romans where he had purposed once again to 
strive with Marcius in valour on the battle-field; and Aufidius con- 
tinued that he had loved the maid he married, never man sighed 
truer breath than he, but his heart danced more at thus beholding 
Marcius than when he bore his wedded bride across his threshold. 
He then led Marcius to the place of feasting, where the senators 
of Antium were assembled. They greeted Marcius with hearty 
welcome and sincere respect and created him commander over their 
army with a power equal to that of Aufidius. 

But how much terror was awakened among the Romans when they 
heard that Marcius, whom they had but lately banished, was advanc- 
ing with hot malice to destroy them ! For Marcius had determined 
to sacrifice them all to his revenge and leave no man, woman or 
child of Rome alive, including in his hate even his former friends 
who were, he said, like scattered grains of wheat in a great pile 
of chaff, not worth the labour of sifting. And it appeared that 
Marcius' great anger had blinded him to the dearest ties of his affec- 
tion, for while his mother with his wife and little son were still in 
Rome, he and Aufidius led their soldiers to the Roman walls and 
invested the city with a relentless and terrible siege that might not 
be resisted. 

Now did the plebeians turn against the tribunes who had coun- 



CORIOLANUS 321 

selled them to banish Marcius, and now they remembered well his 
former services in war and his glory on the battle-field, for these 
were brought sternly home to them by finding their former pro- 
tector a raging enemy. In great fear the plebeians begged the 
friends of Marcius to go into his camp and endeavour to dissuade 
him from his cruel and terrible purpose, and Cominius his former 
general and dear companion visited him. But Marcius dismissed 
Cominius with a motion of his hand, refusing to speak a single 
word, and the aged Agrippa was driven away with equal scorn, 
Marcius giving him no word of comfort, saying only that he knew 
not wife, mother, or child and was turned Volscian. The Romans 
must prepare for death, for he would cast them one and all into 
the flames of their own dwellings; and turning to Aufidius, Marcius 
bade him mark the deadly certainty of his purpose, for Agrippa, 
as he said, had been beloved by him in former days, and yet he now 
drove the old man back to Rome with a broken heart, as Aufidius 
could perceive. 

Agrippa returned to Rome in utter sadness and bade the people 
to prepare for their execution. He said that sentence of death 
was passed upon them, and that there was no thought of mercy in 
the breast of Marcius. 

In a last hope to win Marcius to be merciful, his mother 
Volumnia approached him with his wife and little son, all robed in 
black and bending in supplication; and the sorrowing family cast 
themselves before him. Volumnia bade him to behold how un- 
properly she thus did duty, kneeling with no softer cushion than the 
flint before that son whom she had helped to frame and bring into 
the world. She bade Marcius to look on his unhappy family who 
were constrained to weep on seeing him, when his presence by all 
natural laws should bring nothing but joy to their hearts. Marcius, 
she continued, had bereft them of all comfort, even of praying to 
the gods in their extremity, for how could they pray for his success, 
she asked, when this must mean the ruin of his city, and how could 
they wish Rome to conquer when the Roman's victory would de- 



322 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

mand that Marcius must be led as a foreign recreant through 
Roman streets — a traitor. How would history speak of such un- 
natural scenes and say of Marcius: " This man was noble, but his 
last attempt wiped all the honour out " ? For her own part, Volum- 
nia concluded, she would not wait until that time or even until the 
enemy had broken down the Roman walls. No sooner should they 
march to the attack, than Marcius must tread upon the mother's 
womb that brought him into the world. 

Marcius, although much affected by her sorrow, would then have 
dismissed her, but Volumnia still clung to him, imploring him to 
show the grace of mercy; and his wife and son joined in her appeals, 
until it seemed as if a man of iron could not resist them, and 
Marcius could bear their words no longer. 

Volumnia had won for Rome a happier victory than all the 
swords of Italy could have effected, for Marcius said to Aufidius 
that he would proceed no further with the siege, asking Aufidius 
if he could have done less when spoken to in such a way by 
his own mother. But Marcius cried out to Volumnia, asking if 
she knew what she had done. She had saved Rome, he said, but 
with her own son she had prevailed most dangerously, if not to 
his mortal hurt. For he feared that when he should return 
to Antium, the senators on hearing of his action would decree his 
death. Yet Marcius still refused to place his foot within the hated 
city of Rome. 

Marcius then departed, telling his mother that the Romans should 
build a temple in her honour. She had saved them one and all 
from certain death and their city from destruction, for he had re- 
solved he said that even the name of Rome should perish beneath 
his hand. He returned with Aufidius to Antium, leaving Rome 
with no less hatred than he came, and the Romans never again beheld 
him. 

The Romans cherished Volumnia among the noblest of all their 
patriots and her name and her great service were entered in the 
archives of their city. As for Marcius, his belief in the fate that 



CORIOLANUS 323 

awaited him at Antium was only too certain, for he was treacher- 
ously slain there by no other than Aufidius. But the people of 
Antium gave Marcius a soldier's funeral resolving that in spite of 
all the injury they had received at his hands, his memory should be 
noble and fair among them. 



JULIUS OESAR 

MARCUS BRUTUS was a Roman of noble birth, whose 
ancestors, famous for the stern patriotism with which they 
guarded their city against tyrants, believed that their chief 
duty was to preserve Rome from internal enemies, holding traitors 
more dangerous than hostile armies and undue power in the hands 
of any citizen the most harmful evil to the Roman state. Brutus 
inherited the temper of his forefathers, and was loved alike by 
the common people and the most famous men of Rome — both 
for the great name that he bore and for the noble qualities of his 
disposition that rendered him in all eyes worthy of the utmost fa- 
vour. First among the friends of Brutus was Julius Caesar who 
held him in affectionate regard and conferred kindness and honour 
upon him. 

Brutus, who beheld in Caesar the qualities of greatness shine with 
so brilliant a lustre that few men have known the equal, made full 
return of Caesar's friendship and affection. And although Caesar, 
as the conqueror of the world, was worthy of the utmost reverence, 
Brutus in many ways was not inferior to his mighty friend, — rather 
did he surpass Caesar in the pure and self-sacrificing flame of his 
patriotism, being prepared to render up his life and what was far 
dearer to him, his personal honour, in any cause that he considered 
for his country's good. This disinterested patriotism on the part 
of Brutus was stronger even than his friendship for Julius Caesar. 

As every great man has bitter enemies, there were in Rome many 
who through spite and secret ambition were resolved to curb Caesar's 
flight to that of their own lesser powers, to pluck his laurels from 
him and work on him all possible injury. Chief of these was Caius 
Cassius, to whom the glory of another than himself was gall and 
bitterness. 

324 



JULIUS CjESAR 325 

Cassius was possessed of a dark and rebellious spirit that suffered 
him no joy or peace of mind while he beheld any other to be greater 
than himself. Cassius scorned the amusements of his fellows; the 
common sports and pleasures of his time, the enjoyments in which 
his countrymen took delight were held by him to be contemptible. 
He saw no plays, and listened to no music. He seldom smiled, 
and when he did he smiled as if he mocked himself for being moved 
to mirth. And Cassius, who was a great observer, would spend his 
time considering the deeds of other men; and his thoughts were 
gloomy, discontented and dangerous. 

Cassius had formed a plot against the life of Caesar, and num- 
bered among his fellows as many restless and intolerant spirits as pri- 
vate hatred and malicious envy could assemble for his purpose. 
Knowing the character of Brutus, who with all his virtues was open to 
deception, Cassius determined to persuade him that his great friend 
Caesar was indeed too great for safety, and appealing openly to 
Brutus' sense of patriotism, in secret to flatter his pride and mis- 
direct his energies until Brutus should consent to Caesar's death. 
For Brutus, he believed, was held so dear in the hearts of all the 
people that his name and countenance would gild the evil efforts of 
the other conspirators, changing offence to virtue, until Caesar's 
murder should appear a high and honourable sacrifice. 

There were at this time certain signs that should have warned 
Caesar of the danger that threatened him, for when he was being 
accompanied through Rome in triumph after his defeat of the great 
Pompey, a voice cried out to him in the street, bidding him beware 
the Ides of March in tones of strange and prophetic warning; and 
when Caesar halted his progress and commanded that the speaker 
be set before him, there was brought into his presence an old man 
who was a soothsayer, having a strange power to foretell the future, 
and he bade Caesar a second time to beware the Ides of March 
in tones of unearthly significance that the bystanders shuddered to 
hear. Other warning prophecies had been made to Caesar, but he, 



326 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

who called himself danger's elder brother, regarded none of them, 
and went his way unheeding the utterance of the soothsayer. 

It was then that Cassius resolved to approach Brutus with the 
secret infamy he meditated, and no time could have suited his 
purpose more exactly, for Brutus himself, with the thoughts of his 
country that were ever in his mind, had begun to fear that Caesar 
was too powerful. He had remained behind in thought, while 
Caesar in his triumphant march continued after being halted by the 
soothsayer; and Cassius came on Brutus when his brow was dark 
at a distant shouting that made him think the people were proclaim- 
ing Caesar king. 

Cassius, who beheld the distress and uneasiness of Brutus and 
marked how he alone remained solitary while all others were cel- 
ebrating Caesar's triumph, was able partly to read his thoughts and 
to guess the cause of his disturbance, that made itself evident 
both by look and gesture. He spoke to Brutus in a crafty manner, 
saying it was to be lamented that Brutus might not behold his own 
secret thoughts, which Cassius like a mirror would now disclose to 
him by reflection. And he gave to Brutus obscure hints of his 
purpose, that Brutus, whose brain was quick with the same thoughts 
— ■ although as yet he guessed them not, was quick to read. And 
Brutus asked him what he meant by speaking to him in that manner 
and inquired into what dangers Cassius would lead him, by bidding 
him look inward on himself to read what was not in his heart. 

As he spoke these words, there came another distant shout, louder 
than any previous, and with it there was a prolonged noise of trump- 
ets, and Brutus exclaimed, " What can this shouting mean? " and said 
he feared the people had chosen Caesar for their king. 

" If you fear it, Brutus," said Cassius, " I must think you would 
not have it so." 

" That I would not," said Brutus, " and yet I love Caesar well. 
But why do you hold me here so long ? What is it that you would 
impart to me? If it be anything for the general public good speak 
boldly and I will hear you, aye and follow you, Cassius, wherever 







AN OLD MAN — A SOOTHSAYER — BADE HIM TO BEWARE THE IDES OF 

march "—Pag-e 325 



JULIUS GflESAR 327 

you will lead, for as the gods may speed me while I love the name 
of honour more than I fear death, yet will I look on both in- 
differently in such a cause." 

Cassius then spoke more boldly. He said that both he and Brutus 
were born as free as Caesar; that both had fed as well and could 
endure the winter's cold as well as he, — aye, better, for once, said 
Cassius, he rescued Caesar from the raging Tiber, bearing him on his 
shoulders from the flood when together on a raw and gusty day they 
had attempted to swim its torrent. This was the man, said Cassius, 
who had become a god, to whom he, a wretched creature must bend 
his body if Caesar carelessly but nod on him! It did amaze him, 
said he, that a man of so feeble temper had become so mighty. He 
called Caesar a colossus that bestrode the world while more petty 
men walked under his huge legs and peeped about to find dishon- 
ourable graves; and in a fit of jealous rage he cried, " Now, in the 
names of all the gods, upon what meat doth Caesar feed that he is 
grown so great! " He said the fault that they were underlings lay 
not in their stars but in themselves, for all men at some time were 
masters of their fates, if they would but seize their opportunities. 
He then bade Brutus to think of his ancestors, who would have 
bowed to the rule of any evil spirit sooner than to a Roman king, 
for once there was a Brutus, said Cassius, who drove the Tarquin 
from the streets of Rome for being called a king. 

Hardly had he spoken in this manner, when they learned that 
Caesar's follower, Mark Antony, had offered Caesar thrice, a kingly 
crown, which Caesar, to be sure, had thrice refused, though each 
time, it was said, with greater gentleness, putting it aside as though 
he fain would have accepted it. And Brutus on hearing this, whis- 
pered to Cassius to come to him again and speak further of his 
purposes, for he was torn between a natural and loving affection for 
his friend and the fear lest Caesar should indeed become a king. 
And Cassius rejoiced greatly to have stricken such show of fire from 
one who by all laws of gratitude and kindness should have been 
Caesar's dearest supporter. 



328 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

To influence Brutus even further, Cassius had letters secretly- 
thrown in at his window; and in these, which were written in differ- 
ent hands, as though they came from several citizens, the noble 
qualities of Brutus were highly praised and Caesar's ambition 
glanced at; and in the letters also was written, " Brutus, thou sleep' st, 
awake! " and the words " speak, strike, redress! " 

The night that Brutus received the letters was dark, and terrible 
with thunder and lightning. The sky seemed to rain fire upon the 
city, and strange occurrences affrighted all that went abroad. A 
common slave was seen to hold up his left hand that flamed like 
twenty torches; men all in fire walked the streets, and a thousand 
fearful apparitions brought terror to all that beheld them. 

To Brutus, in the hour before dawn, came all the conspirators, 
closely muffled in their cloaks so that none might recognize them. 
They resolved to murder Caesar that very morning in the senate 
house. The manner of the murder should be that all were to 
surround him and when Casca, one of their number, raised his hand 
to strike, the rest should fall on Caesar with their swords, and slay 
him. 

Cassius would have made them swear one and all to perform what 
they intended, but Brutus would not have it so, saying that if their 
purpose were so weak it must be strengthened by an oath, they were 
better all at home in their idle beds while tyranny ranged on un- 
checked; while if their hearts were sure and their purpose certain 
(for it was a purpose, said Brutus, to make bold the hearts of 
cowards and fire the spirits of women) what other bond was needed 
than their secret word? Brutus likewise refused to consent to the 
murder of Mark Antony, whom Cassius wished to slay with Caesar; 
for Brutus thought their course would then seem too bloody, like 
wrath in death and envy afterwards. And Brutus, who loved 
Caesar even while plotting against him, bade them slay him boldly 
but without wrath as a sacrifice fit for the gods. Thus, said he, 
they should be called patriots, not murderers, and their purpose 
should seem to have been performed less out of envy than for the 



JULIUS CiESAR 329 

common good of Rome. The conspirators then departed with their 
plot completed. Some were to fetch Caesar to the senate house; 
the rest were to contrive to be near his person there. And Brutus 
was left alone in that waking hour betwixt night and dawn, a prey 
to terrible thoughts that distracted him. 

Calpurnia, the wife of Caesar, had been sorely frightened by the 
strange occurrences of the night, and evil dreams had befallen her. 
She dreamed that Caesar's statue spouted blood in an hundred differ- 
ent places, and that many smiling Romans came to bathe their hands 
in it. In the morning when she beheld Caesar prepare to go 
forth as usual, she cried that he should not stir out of his house that 
day; and she recounted to him all the fearsome things that had 
befallen. A lioness, said she, had whelped in the open streets; 
graves had yawned and yielded up their dead; and ranks and 
squadrons of fierce warriors had fought upon the clouds, so that the 
noise of battle was born through all the air and blood was sprinkled 
on the Capitol. Word was then brought to Caesar from the 
augurers — the priests who foretold the future by strange signs 
that none save themselves could read — counselling him to stay 
within his house, for on plucking forth the entrails of a beast that 
they had slain in sacrifice, they could find no heart within it. 

Calpurnia, when hearing this, called on Caesar by all that was 
dear to her to go not forth, for she feared these signs were portents 
of his speedy death; and on her knees she begged him to remain 
at home, until Caesar said at last that he would humour her and 
that Mark Antony should bear word to the senators he would not 
come that day. 

On that instant, however, a conspirator came to fetch Caesar to 
the senate house. On hearing that he would not go, and for what 
reasons, he said the dream was all amiss interpreted — the statue 
spouting blood in which so many smiling Romans bathed, signified 
that from the noble Caesar Rome should suck reviving energies and 
great men seek his favour. The senate (as he said) had concluded 
on that very day to give a crown to mighty Caesar; would not their 



330 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

minds change in case he should remain away until Calpurnia had 
better dreams, and might not people also mock at Caesar and say 
to one another, " Can it be that Caesar is afraid? " In short the 
reasons for his going were so artfully contrived, and other con- 
spirators who he believed friends were now urging him forth with 
such persistence, that Caesar said he was ashamed to have yielded 
to Calpurnia; he called for his robe, for he would go, and set 
forth all unconscious that none save relentless enemies were near 
him. 

On his way to the senate, Caesar encountered once again the 
soothsayer who had cried out in warning on the day previous, and 
Caesar said to him, " The Ides of March have come," to which the 
soothsayer replied, " Ay, Caesar, but not yet passed." Another old 
man then thrust into Caesar's hand a paper giving warning of his 
danger, which might yet have saved him had he read it, but he 
put it aside unread, entered the senate house and took his place near 
Pompey's statue to hear the order of the day. 

At this the conspirators brought forward a petition that they knew 
well Caesar would refuse to grant, and one by one they addressed 
him, calling him mighty Caesar, kneeling before him and caressing 
his garments, until Casca giving the signal by lifting his dagger 
stabbed him treacherously from behind, when one by one they 
turned their weapons against him. And when Caesar beheld the 
hand of his beloved Brutus raised to strike, he could bear no more 
and muffling his face in his toga, fell bleeding in front of Pompey's 
statue and there died. 

Then with uplifted weapons the conspirators shouted, " Liberty! 
Freedom ! " and Brutus cried out to the people that they should have 
no fear: harm was intended to no other than Caesar. For a roar 
as from a mighty sea had arisen when Caesar fell, and men ran 
blindly here and there, calling out in horror, grief and amazement. 
Guarding themselves, the conspirators stood in a little group to 
defend themselves if need be against the people, and they bathed 
their hands and arms in Caesar's blood, preparing, when the turmoil 



JULIUS CAESAR 331 

had subsided to walk forth with crimson weapons and cry " peace," 
" freedom " and " liberty " even to the market-place. 

While they were thus standing with unwiped swords, a servant 
of Mark Antony came and fell before them, saying that his master 
bade him to do so, and, being prostrate, bade him to say that 
Brutus was noble, wise, valiant and honest; that if Brutus would 
vouchsafe that Antony might safely come to him and be resolved 
how Caesar had deserved to lie in death, Antony should not love 
Caesar dead so well as Brutus living, but would follow him with all 
true faith and be his friend in all his fortunes and affairs. 

Brutus bade the servant to tell Antony that safety should be 
given him and Antony shortly came upon them. Beholding Caesar 
dead, he scarce could contain himself and wept over the body. He 
bade each one of the conspirators render him his bloody hand, 
saying that he would remember them in equal love : friends would 
he be with all (on the hope and condition, as he said, that they 
give him reasons wherein Caesar was dangerous) . And Antony said 
further that he begged of them one boon : that as became a friend, 
he should be allowed to speak to the people at Caesar's funeral. 

Brutus granted this request and gave Antony the charge of 
Caesar's body. He said that Antony should speak all good of 
Caesar but say no blame of those that slew him; and further, said 
Brutus, Antony must say he spoke by leave of the conspirators, to 
which Antony assented. For Antony knew that could he but once 
address the people, his grief and anger, inspiring his words, would 
set on foot the greatest mischief to the murderers; and the limits 
Brutus imposed on him were still not great enough to thwart his 
purpose, for Antony was master of the art of making fair words 
praise or condemn as he might choose. 

And now that Antony was left alone with Caesar's body, he gave 
way to tears and addressed the bleeding form that lay before him, 
asking the dead Caesar to forgive him that he seemed so meek and 
gentle with these butchers. And over Caesar's wounds that seemed, 
he said, to open their ruby lips and beg the voice and utterance of 



332 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

his tongue, Antony bade Caesar to have patience, for the dogs of 
war should be let loose in Italy until they should revenge his death. 
And Antony prophesied destruction and fierce civil strife as a result 
of that foul deed, that should be made to smell above the earth, 
like carrion men, groaning for burial. 

The conspirators, in the meanwhile, had gone to the forum, and 
Brutus addressed the throng that had assembled there. He called 
them Romans, fellow-countrymen, and bade them hear him to the 
end and have respect for his honour that they might believe. He 
said that as Caesar loved him, so did he weep for Caesar; as Caesar 
was fortunate, he rejoiced at it; as he was valiant, he honoured him; 
but as he was ambitious, he slew him. Who, said Brutus, was so 
base that he would be a slave and a bondman? If any, let him 
speak, for him alone this sacrifice had offended. He added that as 
he slew his dearest friend for the glory of Rome, he had the same 
dagger for himself when it should please his country to need his 
death; and having won the people by his words, Brutus bade them 
to listen to Mark Antony, who, by his permission, was to do grace 
unto Caesar's corpse and speak of Caesar's glories. For himself, he 
entreated them to let him depart unattended and to harken to the 
words of his successor. So Antony, his eyes all red with weeping, 
ascended the speaker's place and addressed the multitude. 

He came, he said, to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil 
that men did lived after them, — the good was oft interred with 
their bones. The noble Brutus had told them Caesar was ambitious 
and ambition were a grievous fault. Caesar, said Antony, was his 
own dear friend, faithful and just to him. He had brought many 
captives home to Rome whose ransom did the general coffers fill. 
Was that ambition? When the poor had cried, Caesar had wept. 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. They all did see how 
Antony had offered Caesar thrice a kingly crown, which Caesar thrice 
refused. And how, asked Antony, was that ambition? Still, he 
said, he came not to disprove the noble Brutus who was an honour- 
able man (as were they all that had killed Caesar), he came merely 



JULIUS C^SAR 333 

to speak what he did know: that all had once loved Caesar, not 
without cause. What cause withheld them, then, to mourn for 
him? 

Antony then showed them Caesar's will which he said he would 
not read — for it would wrong the honourable men whose daggers 
had killed Caesar. But should he read it, the people would all 
weep and dip their handkerchiefs in Caesar's sacred blood — yea, 
beg a hair from him in memory, mentioning it in their own wills 
as a rich legacy to be bequeathed to their heirs forever. It was 
not meet that they should know how Caesar had loved them. De- 
scending to the body Antony then lifted Caesar's mantle and showed 
his wounds, saying that all did know that mantle — it was the one 
that Caesar wore that day he overcame the Nervii. Here ran 
Cassius' dagger through ; there was the rent the envious Casca made ; 
here Brutus stabbed,^ — and Antony bade them mark how blood had 
followed that last stroke as if it had rushed forth to know if it were 
indeed Brutus who knocked with such unkindness, for Brutus, as 
they all knew, was Caesar's dearest friend, almost his angel. 

When the people, who had been thrown into a frenzy by this 
speech of Antony's, were breaking away to set fire to the houses of the 
conspirators, Antony called them back saying they had forgotten the 
will that they had forced him, although against his better judgment, 
now to read. And he read how Caesar had bequeathed them every 
one seventy-five drachmas, how he had left to them and their heirs 
forever all his walks, all his private arbours and new-planted or- 
chards on this side of the river Tiber — common pleasure-grounds 
where they might walk abroad and recreate themselves. And the 
reading of the will — as Antony had intended — aroused such rage 
and grief among the people that they straightway rushed to the 
homes of the conspirators and burned them, seeking to shed the 
last drop of blood of all that had taken part in Caesar's death. 

The conspirators, however, had learned of their approach and 
had fled from the city, riding like madmen through the gates, for 
Rome was now in the complete control of Antony and his followers. 



334 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

And Brutus and Cassius assembled an army and awaited near Sardis 
the approach of Antony, who, with a nephew of Caesar named 
Octavius, and a great force of soldiers were come in their pursuit. 

At this time there came upon Brutus a visitation that made him 
well aware his cause was lost and that the murder of Csesar must 
be requited by the death of those that slew him : for one night 
when Brutus sat awake in his tent, while all others slept and the 
lamp burned low, he saw an apparition moving towards him in the 
likeness of the murdered Caesar, and it was indeed his ghost. It 
cried to Brutus it had come as his evil angel and would meet him 
once again at Philippi. It then vanished, leaving Brutus pale and 
shaken. And strangely enough, the forces of Antony and Octavius 
came upon Brutus in such a manner that they must be encountered 
near the place the spirit had mentioned to him. And there the ghost 
appeared again to Brutus, and in a bloody battle that followed, the 
death of Caesar was requited for Antony overwhelmed the troops 
of the conspirators and Brutus and Cassius both perished, slaying 
themselves sooner than to be taken captive and led chained through 
Rome at the chariot-wheels of their conqueror. 

Thus was the tragedy concluded that had its beginning largely 
through the mistaken patriotism of Marcus Brutus. For Brutus, 
as Antony afterward said of him, was the only one of the conspira- 
tors who had not acted out of envy of Caesar's greatness. His 
conquerors, therefore, gave Brutus' body an honourable burial, using 
him according to his virtues, as a soldier and a patriot of Rome. 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 

IN Egypt there once reigned a beautiful and ambitious queen 
named Cleopatra, of such rare charm and strange attraction 
that she seemed to cast a spell over all men that came into her 
presence; and Cleopatra used her beauty with a deep and artful 
cleverness to win whatever she desired — in a manner beyond ex- 
planation, almost magical. 

Cleopatra had been placed upon the throne of Egypt by Julius 
Caesar, who won her kingdom from her brother Ptolemy — for 
Caesar had been stricken with instant and blinding affection for 
Cleopatra, who overpowered him with the amazing wonder of her 
beauty until he became bound hand and foot to do her service. 
But when Caesar was murdered, his control over the Roman do- 
minions of which Egypt was part, was taken by three men who 
called themselves triumvirs, one of whom was Caesar's former 
friend, Mark Antony. 

When the triumvirs divided the Roman territory, Egypt and the 
kingdoms of the east were given to Mark Antony, and Cleopatra 
determined to win his heart as she had won the heart of Caesar 
before him, until like Caesar, Antony should be fast fettered in her 
love to do her bidding. For Cleopatra intended through the love 
of Antony to become the mistress of the eastern kingdoms that he 
ruled, and she resolved to spare no pains to win this power for which 
purpose she must first become the mistress of Antony's affections. 

So, when Antony came into the east, Cleopatra surrounded her- 
self with a display of wealth unparalleled even in that day, when 
kings and queens spared no splendour in their adornment; and she 
sailed down the river Cydnus to meet him, in a barge wonderful 
with gold until it seemed to burn upon the water. The oars were 
all of silver and kept stroke to time of flutes that played in pleasing 

335 



336 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

melody; the sails were of purple silk, perfumed until the very winds 
were love-sick with them and a strange and subtle scent was blown 
to the shore. On deck, in a pavilion of gold cloth, where were 
embroidered the loves of Venus, Cleopatra lay in great magnificence, 
waited on by boys like Cupids, while her handmaidens, who were 
her sailors, pulled at the silken ropes until the great sails swelled 
and flared like flame above her head. 

That night Cleopatra invited Antony to a great banquet, where 
she won his heart as she had won the heart of Caesar before him; 
and Antony became her complete slave, forgetting all save his desire 
to serve and to be near this marvellous queen. Antony thought 
no more of his fellow triumvirs, to whom he owed the duty of safe 
keeping the great countries in his charge; he forgot his wife, Fulvia, 
or if thinking of her wished her dead, and spent his time revelling 
and feasting with Cleopatra. She, who saw that Antony was held 
in love of her, would laugh him in and out of patience; and once, 
while he was in his cups, she arrayed him for a jest in her mantles 
and head-dress, while she buckled to her waist his Roman sword. 
By her side the nights of Antony were made light with wine and 
revelry, but his days were spent in idle slumber and dull ease, ill 
fitting his great fame and his honour as a Roman general. For 
Antony, in his affection for Cleopatra, forgot his duties as a sol- 
dier and the care of the great countries that had been entrusted 
to him; and in his way of life, the ease in which he took his pleasure 
and the luxury that surrounded him, Antony became as womanly 
as the queen he loved. 

The love-making of Antony and his utter subjection to the idlest 
whim of Cleopatra, were soon born to the ears of Octavius Caesar 
and Marcus Lepidus, his fellow triumvirs, who were greatly an- 
gered by his misconduct. For Antony's lieutenants were more pow- 
erful in deed than their commander, who would, moreover, insult 
the messengers from Rome and pay but little heed to their most 
urgent tidings. Antony preferred to reel the streets of Alexandria 
at noon, brawling and exchanging buffets with the idle rogues that 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 337 

he encountered, and he cared not that his feasting and luxurious 
ways were the shame of his friends at Rome and had become the 
common theme of gossip in the Roman market-place. Antony's 
wild revels and carousings were the more marked and brought more 
sharply into public disfavour by his former greatness, for until he 
met with Cleopatra, he had been a skillful and brave commander, 
capable of any hardship, disdaining not the rudest berry on the 
roughest hedge for food, prepared to couch himself on flint and 
sleep there as in a bed of down, with action and purposes all strong 
and resolute, as befitted a great soldier. 

If any time could have awakened Antony from his revels, affairs 
in Italy should then have called him thither, for Rome was threat- 
ened with the swords of civil war, and Caesar and Lepidus were in 
sore need of the troops that Antony had with him in the east. The 
son of the great Pompey who had been Julius Caesar's enemy, now 
threatened the triumvirs as his father had threatened Caesar, and all 
discontented persons who hoped to repair their fortunes by a war, 
had flocked to Pompey's banner. Antony's wife, Fulvia, had raised 
an army against Caesar, hoping by this means to call her lord from 
Egypt; but Fulvia had been stricken with a grievous illness and 
suddenly in the midst of her preparations she had died. 

Word of these ill tidings came together to the court of Cleopatra, 
and Antony determined that he must break his strong Egyptian 
fetters, as he named her charms, and hasten to Italy, where the 
times, he said, cried out to him to leave his idle love-making. So 
Antony bade Cleopatra to use no means to withhold him for he 
would go; and he took his farewell fearfully lest even then sh^ 
might dissuade him. For Cleopatra cared not if his Roman for- 
tunes were destroyed forever so long as he remained with her and 
had the power to do her bidding in the east. She feared that if 
Antony departed, her control over him would be lost, and she sought 
to change his purpose with all her skill and all her arts. She said 
that eternity had spoken from their lips and eyes ; that love such as 
theirs could bide no separation. When she found him still resolved 



* 



338 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

in spite of all her pleadings, she wished him smooth success and 
laurelled victory, and bade him, although in anger and sadness, to. 
leave her. And Antony left in haste, flying like a fugitive from 
Egypt, lest the persuasion of Cleopatra weaken him and force him 
to forego his purpose. 

When Antony arrived at Rome, he found that his long continued 
absence and the evil repute that preceded him had harmed him not 
a little in all Roman eyes, while Caesar was enraged to the point of 
taking up arms against him. Were it not for their common enemy, 
Pompey, Antony and Caesar then and there would have made war 
upon each other, but Pompey had gained control of all the sea and 
was proud in his new strength. Antony and Caesar, therefore, 
became reconciled, and to seal their revived friendship, Antony mar- 
ried Caesar's sister, Octavia, a matron of high and noble character, 
ill suited to become the wife of such a reveller as Antony. For 
even then Antony was planning to acquit himself against Pompey 
with the utmost speed and return to the gorgeous pleasures of the 
east and to the arms of Cleopatra. 

In the meanwhile, Cleopatra was love-sick and restless at the 
absence of her beloved Antony. She told her maids that she would 
drink mandragora and sleep till his return; yet how then, said she, 
might she hear about this paragon of men, his bearing, his words, 
his actions, how he appeared and what he spoke; for the slightest 
thing when graced by his dear presence became, she said, a matter 
for an empire. Cleopatra sent to Antony each day a troop of 
messengers with letters for him, saying that she would unpeople 
Egypt before he should lack many daily greetings from her; and 
Antony sent to her a priceless pearl that he had kissed, with the 
message that her throne should be increased with conquered king- 
doms, to mend what he was pleased to call the poorness of his 
present. 

In such manner did Antony receive the renewed friendship and 
confidence of Caesar, who had been willing to strengthen the bonds 
between them by the hand of his own sister, whom he loved tenderly. 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 339 

For Antony had spoken to Caesar so like his former self, with such 
apparent readiness of purpose and so many promises of reformation, 
that Caesar had no thought of his future intentions, which he be- 
lieved to be honourable. But the friends of both knew that Antony 
was still in Cleopatra's bondage, proposing to return to Egypt on 
his first opportunity; and they knew likewise that this would mean 
instant war between Caesar and Antony, whose new relationship by 
marriage would become a very sword between them. 

When Cleopatra learned that Antony had wedded Octavia, she 
was angered so greatly that she endeavoured to slay with her own 
hand the messenger who brought the tidings ; but when she learned 
how this Octavia appeared — the colour of her hair and eyes, what 
were her years and features, she knew that such a wife could never 
keep her Antony away from Egypt. She determined that when 
Antony returned, she would confuse his senses with the utmost 
luxury until he could nevermore escape, even should he desire to; 
and she believed that if war should come between Caesar and An- 
tony, that with her aid Antony could overthrow his enemies and 
win a power even greater than before. Her days were spent in 
talking with her maidens of Antony's virtues, her nights in dream- 
ing of Antony; and she fed her mind by night and day with love, 
as with delicious poison. 

With Caesar and Lepidus, in the meanwhile, Antony had pre- 
pared to overthrow the force of Pompey and regain control over 
the Roman empire. But conflict was no longer necessary, for when 
Pompey knew that Antony had joined the others against him instead 
of remaining idly in Egypt, he made peace with the triumvirs, for 
he knew likewise that Antony was a better general than either Caesar 
or Lepidus, and he feared that against their triple strength his own 
power would be useless. 

When peace was made, it was not long before Antony bade his 
wife Octavia farewell, saying falsely that he would go to the city 
of Athens, and he returned to Cleopatra to spend his time with her 
in feasts and revelry of such profuse extravagance that the like had 



340 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

never been beheld. Antony caused himself and Cleopatra to be 
publicly enthroned on chairs of gold, making her absolute queen of 
the dominions that had been entrusted to his care. Not only did 
he break all promises to Caesar and with his own hand sever all 
ties that bound him to his country, but he demanded money from 
the eastern kingdoms and prepared for war with Rome, showing 
in all his deeds how far he had been betrayed from his former self. 

All this while Antony became more and more bound in his love 
to Cleopatra, and indeed it was nothing but his blind affection for 
her that had caused him to become a stranger to his honour and his 
patriotism. Love had overpowered all his senses. His skill as a 
commander, his soldierly pride and judgment forsook him. His 
thoughts, that should have been directed to the war that threatened 
him, hung on Cleopatra; and to all appearance he cared little 
that Caesar with a powerful force of soldiers had come into the east 
to conquer him, for he believed that with Cleopatra to aid him, 
Caesar would be driven back to Rome. 

In spite of the entreaties of his lieutenants, Antony conceived the 
mad purpose of fighting Caesar by sea instead of by land; and this 
intent showed plainly that his former skill in war had been destroyed. 
For the Roman fleet was infinitely stronger than Antony's, with 
experienced seamen and captains, while the Egyptian vessels were 
manned for the most part by reapers or ploughmen, slaves who were 
unused to ships and soldiers, who while brave on land would lose 
their courage in the untried action of a fight at sea. Also Cleopatra 
determined to be present in her own galley at this conflict — an 
act unheard of in the customs of war and greatly disapproved 
by Antony's commanders, who feared, not without cause, that 
Antony might be distracted by her presence until his fleet should 
suffer as a consequence. But Antony, however, would hear no 
reasons to the contrary, and accompanied by Cleopatra prepared 
to meet Caesar in a naval engagement. 

How far Antony's commanders had been justified in their fears 
was soon beheld, for in the terrible encounter with the Roman 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 341 

vessels, while the conflict was at height, before advantage had 
been given to either side, Cleopatra took fright at the confusion of 
battle, which was new and fearful to her, and she sailed away with 
all her vessels, leaving Antony to overcome his enemies as best he 
might without her further aid. When the ships of Cleopatra had 
departed, the Roman fleet soon began to prevail over the lessened 
number of their enemies, and it was plain to see that Caesar would be 
victorious. 

But a calamity even more terrible than Cleopatra's flight had be- 
fallen the ill-fated ships of Antony, for Antony himself, when he 
saw the retreating sails of the Egyptians, showed the complete ruin 
that Cleopatra's magic had wrought within him, and to his eternal 
disgrace followed her out of the conflict, leaving his fleet without 
an admiral at the mercy of the Roman vessels. By this act Antony 
not only undid the fame that he had won in many battles, but lost 
forever his chance to defeat Caesar. For many kings that would 
have remained loyal to Antony in case of his success, now offered 
their allegiance to Caesar, while many of Antony's own officers and 
soldiers deserted in shame and anger to the Roman ranks. 

In this way did the strength of Antony's blind love which was 
akin to madness work the complete ruin of his fortunes. But after 
flying from his enemies, Antony seemed to awaken as from a dream 
to a sense of his past conduct. In bitter shame he called his friends 
about him, bidding them to fly and save themselves, for by his own 
example, as he said in sorrow, he had taught them how to turn their 
shoulders to a foe; and he blamed himself so pitifully that all who 
heard him were compelled to weep and wonder at the ruins of his 
former self; Cleopatra herself wept and begged him to forgive her, 
saying she little thought he would have followed when she fled. 

Antony bade Cleopatra, although with tenderness, to be ashamed 
for leaving him in such a manner. He said that she knew his sword 
had become weak through love of her alone and that he would 
follow where she led, even against the bidding of the gods. But 
when Cleopatra made as though she would weep again, Antony 



342 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

could blame her no longer and bade her kiss him, saying that such 
a kiss repaid him utterly for all that he had lost, and he called 
for food and wine with a sad attempt at cheerfulness, commanding 
his dismayed followers to be merry in spite of their ill fortunes. 

To Caesar Antony sent a messenger who in his own person showed 
the pitiful state to which his lord had fallen, for while Antony could 
once have ordered kings to do his bidding, this messenger was no 
other than a poor schoolmaster, who begged of Caesar that Antony 
should be allowed to live in Egypt, or if not, that he might retire to 
Athens and remain there, a private citizen. 

Cleopatra also sued for favours from Caesar, and she worded her 
message in most gracious terms, acknowledging his greatness. She 
said that she craved of him her kingdom for her heirs, for that in 
Caesar's voice she heard the doom of Egypt; and she framed this 
message in such manner that Caesar believed she was prepared to 
forsake Antony. Caesar was partly right in this surmise, for Cle- 
opatra would indeed have been both ready and willing to keep her 
power through his love could she have won it, even as she had 
ruled through Antony's affection. And while she was not yet pre- 
pared to forsake Antony, she smoothed her way with Caesar with 
her utmost skill, and it was plain to see that when he finally should 
triumph, she would turn to him for favour. 

Caesar replied that for Antony's request he had no ears. If 
Cleopatra would renounce her disgraced friend and slay him, or 
at least drive him from Egypt, he would consider what she asked 
him. Caesar also sent an officer named Thyreus to Cleopatra in 
the endeavour to win her away from Antony, and with smooth words 
Thyreus tempted her until she sent by him another gracious message 
to Caesar. 

It chanced, however, that when Thyreus prepared to leave her 
he begged her hand to kiss, and Cleopatra gave it to him, say- 
ing that it was a hand that Julius Caesar and the great Pompey had 
often stooped to honour. But while Thyreus bent over her hand, 
Antony came before them, and beholding Caesar's messenger in such 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 343 

favour he partly realized Cleopatra's faithlessness. Antony cried 
out in grief and anger, demanding of Cleopatra how she dared 
to stoop so low as to bestow upon a servant, his own playfellow, 
her hand — that kingly seal and plighter of high hearts. He com- 
manded his attendants to bear Thyreus from his presence and whip 
him until he cried aloud for mercy; and turning to Cleopatra, 
Antony gazed on her in a terrible manner and asked if he had 
sacrificed his fame in Rome, forsaken all his fortunes and forborne 
the getting of a lawful race by a gem of women to be made at last 
the rival of a slave in the pay of Caesar. When the attendants 
returned with Thyreus, Antony said to him that the next time 
a lady's hand should fever him, he would do well to shake with 
fear in looking on it; and he bade Thyreus return with his stripes 
to Caesar, and bear him word of his entertainment. 

Cleopatra, however, with words of affection contrived to soothe 
the angered heart of Antony — an easy task, when Antony did so 
desire to believe in her true love. For as a flame will flicker into 
life before it dies, men in evil fortune entertain wild hopes that 
never can come true, and Antony now was ready both to believe 
Cleopatra and to think that he could conquer the army arrayed 
against him. He prepared for a final encounter with Caesar and 
called his disheartened followers .about him to spend one more 
night together in revelry and drown their fears in drinking to the 
battle that was imminent. 

That night, while Antony and his lieutenants were carousing, 
a sign of his approaching ruin was given to the soldiers of his guard 
without the palace. For a noise as of music filled the air, and 
muffled drums and hautboys sounded underneath the earth. The 
sounds grew dim in distance until they faded into silence, and the 
soldiers said in fear that they were caused by the great god Hercules 
whom Antony had loved, and they signified, said the soldiers, that 
Hercules was leaving Antony to his fate. When the soldiers ap- 
proached others who were on guard in different places about the 
palace it seemed that all had heard the unearthly music, and every- 



344 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

where it had waned and died away as though played by someone 
taking leave of them. 

The fighting that followed between Antony and Caesar was brief 
and final; for while Antony at first seemed to conquer, Caesar soon 
prevailed. And now a further proof was given to Antony of 
Cleopatra's hollowness, for again her Egyptian vessels that were 
to aid him in his battle which was partly fought by sea gave way 
speedily, surrendering to Caesar; and the sailors of both fleets 
shouted in joy, more like friends that met after a time of separa- 
tion than enemies that had contended against each other. 

Antony was resolved bitterly to upbraid Cleopatra who had a 
second time been false to him, and when he saw her she had become 
so hateful to his eyes that he warned her away quickly lest he 
should blemish Caesar's triumph by slaying her. He called her 
the greatest spot of all her sex, most terrible and monster-like to" 
have betrayed him; and his rage increasing almost to madness, he 
could no longer withhold his vengeance but resolved to follow her 
and slay her. 

Cleopatra, in the utmost terror at his anger, fled with her women 
into one of the great monuments of stone that were near her pal- 
ace, and there she barred herself so that Antony might not follow 
her. She sent to Antony a slave who was to tell him that his 
anger had made her do the deed that he intended, for that she 
had taken her own life; and she bade the slave to word his message 
piteously, thinking that when Antony should hear this false report, 
his anger would give way to instant grief, and then learning the 
truth, he would do nothing but rejoice that she was still alive. 

Cleopatra's deception, however, had an effect far different from 
what she had believed, and with most fatal consequence to Antony; 
for when he learned of her death, although he himself had pur- 
posed to effect it, he could no longer bear to live but stabbed himself 
with his own sword; and learning before he died that Cleopatra 
still was living, he was carried, mortally hurt, to the monument 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 345 

where she had taken refuge. For the tidings of her death had 
completely reawakened his great love. 

There Antony was lifted to Cleopatra's side, and lay dying with 
her arms about him; and as he died, he bade her with his last 
breath to seek her safety from Caesar. And Antony begged her 
never to remember him as he was then — crushed, despised and at the 
point of death, but to think of him as he had been in former days 
when he first loved her, — strong to give her what she wished and 
powerful in pride with all the eastern world at his command. Then 
the tormented heart of Antony could bear no more and in the midst 
of his words he became silent; even his love could no longer with- 
hold the death that was swiftly coming upon him, and he died. 

Cleopatra did not long survive Antony, for when she knew that 
Caesar was resolved to bear her as a captive to Rome and lead her 
through the open streets in his triumph, she also determined to 
end her life; and she caused a slave to bring her in secret a snake 
that was called the asp, whose sting is almost instantly fatal to 
its victims, causing them to die as though they fall into a sudden 
slumber with no pain. Cleopatra laid one of these snakes upon 
her breast, keeping it there until she seemed to fall asleep; and 
her handmaidens did likewise; and when the guard came upon 
them, only one of her attendants remained alive, who breathed out 
faintly that such a death was well and fitting for a princess like 
her mistress, who was descended from so long a line of royal kings. 

There remained nothing for Caesar but to perform the funeral 
rites df Cleopatra and of his former friend and confederate, Antony, 
and Caesar laid them together in one tomb so that Antony might 
sleep forever in the presence of the queen whom he had loved so 
well. 



TITUS ANDRONICUS 

IN the days when the state of Rome had been changed from a 
republic to an empire, and when the city, robbed of its an- 
cient power, was beset by many enemies, there lived a Roman 
general whose name was Titus Andronicus. Andronicus was the 
bravest soldier and the most respected citizen of his time, beloved 
alike for his integrity, his patriotism and his knowledge of the 
art of war. His skill as a soldier had recently overcome a people 
called the Goths, who were bitter and dangerous enemies to the 
Roman state; moreover he had captured a Gothic queen called 
Tamora, bringing her with her three sons as prisoners to Rome, 
where the people rejoiced greatly at the triumph of their beloved 
general. For the Romans, who had lost their former strength 
at arms, knew only too well that their present success was wholly 
due to the wisdom and indomitable courage of Andronicus. 

Of a great many sons that Andronicus had reared to become 
soldiers, all but four had perished on the battle-field, and more than 
one had been slain in the very war whence Andronicus with his four 
surviving sons were now returning victorius into the city. These 
four sons were called Lucius, Martius, Quintus and Mutius, their 
names being as similar as they themselves were alike in the soldierly 
qualities that they inherited from their noble father. With their 
father they were given a warm welcome by the Roman people, who 
beheld in them the virtues of Andronicus and regarded them with 
him as the deliverers of Rome from a great and terrible calamity. 

It remained for this brave general to perform the funeral rites 
of his slain sons, whose bodies had been brought with sorrow 
into the city. In accordance with the ancient custom that called for 
a sacrifice at the funeral of Roman soldiers, the sons of Andronicus 
demanded of their father the most noble of his prisoners, saying 

346 



TITUS ANDRONICUS 347 

that they would slay him to appease the spirits of their brothers 
that might not (as they believed) enter in the lower world until 
their funeral obsequies had been performed. Andronicus therefore 
gave up for sacrifice the prisoner, Alarbus, the eldest son of 
Tamora, the unhappy queen whom he had captured. And when 
this queen with tears begged for her son's life, Andronicus bade 
her spare her useless entreaties, for Alarbus had been marked for a 
religious offering and must die. 

Lucius and his brothers then conveyed Alarbus to a funeral pyre, 
where they slew him with their swords and gave his body to the 
flames. They then returned into their father's presence with 
bloodied weapons, bidding him mark how they had performed their 
Roman rites. 

When Tamora and her surviving sons knew that Alarbus had 
been put to death, they resolved if ever they should gain their 
liberty, fully to requite his fate upon the family and kinsmen of 
Andronicus, and to include in their revenge all that bore that name, 
even his most remote relatives, for they believed the blood of all his 
family would be a scant return for Tamora's beloved and valiant 
son, Alarbus. Demetrius, who was now her eldest, bade his mother 
remember the time when she had been a queen instead of a despised 
captive and thinking on it be resolved to revenge her wrongs upon 
her enemies. Demetrius bade her hope that such a time might 
befall her soon, telling her that the gods who armed the queen of 
Troy for vengeance might favor the queen of Goths with a like 
opportunity. 

While the war against the Goths had been in progress, the em- 
peror of Rome had died, and dispute had at once arisen as to 
who should succeed him on the throne. For the emperor had left 
two sons who were contending for their father's title. The eldest 
of these, who was named Saturninus, claimed that the empire was 
his by right of birth, while Bassianus, his younger brother, think- 
ing himself more loved among the people than Saturninus, de- 
manded that the Romans should choose their ruler by a popular 



348 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

election; and the friends and retainers of these two brothers went 
about the streets in arms, prepared to do battle with each other on 
the slightest opportunity. 

But when Andronicus with his army arrived in the city, the rival 
claimants for the empire, fearing the people's anger, allowed the 
justice of their cause to be decided by the Roman citizens; and as 
it chanced neither of them was to be favoured by the people's choice, 
who named for the proud office of emperor no other than 
Andronicus himself. And the people sent to Andronicus a white 
robe in token of their decision, telling him that he was chosen as 
a candidate with Saturninus and Bassianus. And it was plainly to 
be perceived that Andronicus would triumph in the election over 
the late emperor's two sons, who had disputed so angrily that the 
people's displeasure was awakened against them. 

Andronicus, however, who was old, and wearied by the severe 
life of a soldier that he had led for forty years, did not desire the 
mighty power that the people wished to confer on him. At the 
best, he said, his rule could last but a short period of time, as 
his life, now almost at an end, must soon be spent, and leave that 
mighty office open again to further disputes such as had lately 
arisen. He asked the people if they would allow him to choose 
who should be their emperor, saying, when they consented, that he 
wished them to observe the right of Saturninus, their emperor's 
eldest son, whose virtues, as he hoped, would bring to Rome the 
utmost happiness. And the people, on learning the desire of 
Andronicus, created Saturninus as their emperor. 

When Saturninus heard Andronicus speak of him in so generous 
a manner and when he knew that through the efforts of this general 
his title so long and so eagerly desired had been attained at last, 
he was to all appearance overcome with the deepest gratitude, and 
offered, both as a reward for Andronicus' gentleness and to advance 
his family in Rome, to wed Lavinia, the only daughter of Andronicus, 
and make her, as he said, Rome's empress and the mistress of his 
own affections. Andronicus joyfully consented to this proposal, 



TITUS ANDRONICUS 349 

and in honour of the marriage he gave to Saturninus all the prisoners 
that he had taken, with his chariot and armour, and all the spoils 
of the late war against the Goths. Saturninus was rejoiced to have 
as his own prisoner the Gothic queen whose beauty he greatly ad- 
mired, and he told her that she should be used with all respect and 
ceremony. Saturninus then prepared to wed Lavinia, calling his 
friends to witness the marriage about to be performed. 

Lavinia, however, was loved by the emperor's brother, Bassianus, 
and loved him in return. When Bassianus knew that Saturninus 
not only had taken from him his chance to become emperor but 
was about to do him even greater injury by marrying Lavinia, he 
determined to fly with Lavinia from the emperor's presence and 
marry her before his brother could prevent him. And Bassianus 
was aided in his purpose by the four sons of Andronicus, who had 
known of his betrothal to their sister, and were unwilling that she 
should become the bride of Saturninus. 

Accordingly, Bassianus with Lavinia fled suddenly from the em- 
peror's presence, and when Andronicus and the emperor in great 
anger attempted to follow, the sons of Andronicus opposed them 
and a brawl was started, wherein Andronicus slew his son, Mutius, 
who had attempted to bar his way with drawn sword. And while 
this quarrel was in progress, Bassianus and Lavinia effected their 
escape and were privately married. 

As there was a law in Rome that gave to any father the power 
of life and death over his children, Andronicus could not be pun- 
ished for his rash and terrible action in slaying Mutius; and he had, 
indeed, done this in a heat of rage, and in the service of his em- 
peror; and Mutius in opposing his own father had committed in 
all Roman eyes a crime far greater than that of Andronicus in 
slaying him. But the utmost grief was shown for the unfortunate 
Mutius who had returned from triumphant wars to fall disgrace- 
fully in a city brawl by the hand of his own father. 

Saturninus, however, was secretly rejoiced in what had just oc- 
curred, for the beauty of queen Tamora, who was his prisoner, had 



350 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

aroused in him a sudden and violent flame of love that made him 
wholly unwilling to wed Lavinia as he had promised. And the 
emperor showed great anger against Andronicus, saying that the 
flight of Lavinia had been contrived by Andronicus himself to make 
of him, Saturninus, a mock in the eyes of all the assembled multi- 
tude. He said that he desired no longer to espouse Lavinia or to 
have any further dealings with Andronicus who had so basely be- 
trayed him, and forgetting that he owed his throne and all his 
high position to Andronicus, Saturninus accused him openly of 
treachery and secretly prepared to be revenged upon him. And 
Saturninus said that instead of Lavinia, whom he now scorned, he 
would take for his bride the Gothic queen who had been his prisoner, 
and he married Tamora with pomp and great magnificence. 

By this strange turn of fortune, Tamora became empress over the 
people who lately had beheld her in chains as the prisoner of An- 
dronicus. 

Tamora bore in mind the words of her son Demetrius, and saw 
now that the opportunity she desired to injure Andronicus had 
been given her. She persuaded her new husband to make a pre- 
tence of forgiving him, saying that Saturninus had but lately come 
to his new honour and that the people even now might turn against 
him and place Andronicus upon the throne. If Saturninus would 
have patience, she continued, she would find a way to work the 
complete ruin of Andronicus and all his family, to whom she had 
pleaded vainly for the life of her dear son. In the presence of 
Andronicus, Tamora then bade her lord to be reconciled with him, 
saying that as she had become a Roman through her marriage 
with the emperor, she was resolved to forget all former quarrels, 
and turning with an assumed kindness of manner to Andronicus 
she entreated his friendship. The open-hearted Andronicus pos- 
sessed the blunt honesty of an old soldier, and was more used to 
severe battle with his foes than to intrigues such as Tamora had 
prepared against him. He believed her words and was rejoiced at 
the change that had again befallen Saturninus, who now entreated 



TITUS ANDRONICUS 351 

his friendship and besought his pardon. Andronicus replied that 
new life was infused in him by the happy reconciliation with his 
lord and ruler; and through all the city the marriages of Tamora 
and Lavinia were celebrated with feasting and revelry by the 
emperor's decree. 

Tamora had been accompanied to Rome by a Moor named Aaron 
who had likewise been taken prisoner by Andronicus, and Aaron 
was fast held in the affections of his royal mistress, who, indeed, 
entertained a secret love for him that was unknown to her husband, 
Saturninus. This Moor, who was a wicked and hard-hearted man, 
aided the queen in her purpose of revenge upon Andronicus, con- 
ceiving a plan of great cruelty to bring misfortune upon his children. 
For Aaron plotted that Bassianus should be murdered by Tamora's 
two sons, and he devised a plan whereby the guilt of this crime 
should be fixed upon the sons of Andronicus. 

There was a forest near Rome where game was known to be 
plentiful, and the emperor intended to go hunting there on the day 
following his marriage with Queen Tamora. This hunt was a part 
of the wedding festivities and was to be the occasion of great 
pleasure and rejoicing; all the emperor's friends and followers had 
been invited, and Tamora with Aaron had made certain that An- 
dronicus with his sons, and Lavinia and Bassianus all intended to 
be present. For in this forest Aaron and Tamora intended to 
revenge themselves upon Andronicus. 

For the completion of his design, Aaron had written a letter that 
spoke of Bassianus' murder and of a reward to be gained for com- 
mitting it. The letter told also of a remote part of the forest 
where the reward had been secreted, and Aaron had concealed a 
bag of gold in the exact place and manner that the letter had 
described, giving the letter to Tamora who was to deliver it to 
Saturninus as though she had discovered it by chance. Bassianus 
was to be lured to the place where the reward was hidden and 
murdered there. And Aaron had contrived that Martius and 
Quintus, Andronicus' two sons, were to be discovered with the slain 



352 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Bassianus, so that the emperor would be forced to believe that they 
were guilty of the murder. All was now prepared for Aaron to 
complete the villainy that he intended, for Bassianus and Lavinia 
who were enjoying the pleasures of the hunt, had wandered far away 
from the emperor's party and came upon the lonely place where 
Aaron had contrived his design against them. There they en- 
countered Tamora, who was to engage them in a quarrel until 
Demetrius and Chiron, her two sons, should fall upon them with 
their swords and murder Bassianus. 

Tamora spoke scornfully to them, calling Bassianus an unman- 
nerly intruder for following her, as she accused him, to the remote 
spot where she had been discovered. When Bassianus replied with 
bitter words in which Lavinia joined him, a quarrel soon arose, and 
Bassianus accused Tamora of treachery to her own husband, say- 
ing that he would acquaint the emperor with her faithlessness. 
Demetrius and Chiron then came suddenly upon them and attacked 
Bassianus, who, taken unawares, had no chance to defend himself 
and soon was slain. His body was then concealed in a deep pit 
overgrown with vines and brambles and the murderers fled from 
the place, taking Lavinia with them as their prisoner. 

In the meanwhile Aaron had gone in search of Martius and 
Quintus, whom he persuaded to accompany him, by telling them 
of a sleeping panther that easily might fall a prey before their 
weapons; and he enticed them to the place where the murdered 
Bassianus lay concealed. And before they knew where he was 
leading them, Martius stumbled and fell headlong into the pit that 
was so covered with the forest growth that he had not perceived 
it, until his feet had been betrayed into its depth; and while 
he was struggling to free himself, he beheld the body. Quintus, 
who had seen him fall, cried out to know if he were injured; and 
Martius replied with horror, " O brother, I am hurt with the most 
dismal sight that ever grieved my eyes. Look down into this 
den and behold it. Poor Bassianus lies here murdered." — " Reach 
me your hand," said Quintus, " so I may help you out, or wanting 



TITUS ANDRONICUS 353 

strength be buried with you in this dreadful grave." When he 
endeavoured to pull his brother from the gulf, he found the task 
was utterly beyond his power, and Quintus also slipped and fell 
and both were imprisoned without hope of rescue. For Aaron, 
who had seen them fall, made haste to bring the emperor to the 
spot who beheld Martius and Quintus in the pit where lay the body 
of Bassianus. 

Hardly had Saturninus learned of his brother's terrible death, 
when Tamora came upon them, crying out with great appearance 
of distress, " Where is Bassianus," and she gave to the emperor the 
letter that disclosed the pretended plot. And when they looked 
for the reward of gold, they found it beneath an elder-tree as the 
letter had described. And nothing could persuade the emperor that 
Martius and Quintus were not guilty of his brother's murder. 

As a punishment for this crime, Martius and Quintus were sen- 
tenced to be put to death, and neither their father's entreaties nor 
their own great service to their country in the Gothic wars could 
effect their pardon. For the emperor and all the people were en- 
raged at the base murder of Bassianus, and the plot had been so 
cleverly contrived that all believed it had been committed by the 
two unhappy men whom Aaron had betrayed. And Martius and 
Quintus were put to death with the law's utmost severity, while 
Tamora's two sons rejoiced greatly in the fate that had overtaken 
them — still more, in the sorrow that had been caused to their 
unhappy father. For Andronicus grieved for Martius and Quintus 
more than for all the courageous sons that he had lost in battle, 
who had died, as he said of them, in honour and bravery, while 
their two brothers were put to death in shame by the hands of their 
fellow citizens. Even another sorrow had befallen Andronicus, for 
Lucius, his only surviving son, was banished from the Roman 
dominions for attempting to rescue his condemned brothers. 

In the meanwhile, the wickedness of Tamora and her two sons 
had been revealed to Andronicus. After Lavinia had been taken 
prisoner by Demetrius and Chiron, she was subjected by them to 



354 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

cruel tortures that deprived her, as they believed, of any power to 
injure them when she should be set at liberty ; but Lavinia contrived 
to disclose to her father both the manner of her own cruel fate 
and how her husband, Bassianus, had been murdered; and she suc- 
ceeded in revealing to him also that Demetrius and Chiron were 
the authors of these crimes, so that Andronicus could be revenged 
upon them. 

When Andronicus knew that Tamora's sons had been the cause 
of all his sorrow he prepared to overwhelm them with a misfortune 
fully as terrible as his own, and to include in his revenge the heart- 
less queen who had encouraged them, also the emperor, Saturninus, 
for ordering the death of his two sons, innocent of the crime for 
which they suffered. Andronicus therefore invited Tamora and the 
emperor to a great feast, where he intended to destroy them, and he 
enticed them thither by saying that his son Lucius would be present. 

When Lucius had been banished, he fled to the country of the 
Goths who had been his recent enemies, and they, who knew to 
their cost his skill and bravery as a soldier were more than willing 
that he lead their army against Rome, where Lucius was determined 
to place his father or himself in full control over the Roman state. 

Tamora was well aware of this, and also that Lucius with his 
hostile power even then was near the city gates; she had determined 
to slay Lucius at the banquet and to kill Andronicus himself there, 
and she believed that Andronicus, by giving this feast and causing 
Lucius to leave his army and come unguarded into Rome, had be- 
trayed himself and Lucius into her hands. Andronicus had 
feigned a strange disorder of mind the more thoroughly to deceive 
her, and Tamora did not dream that the feast was only a ruse on his 
part to entice her and the emperor into his house. 

Before the hour of the banquet, Andronicus contrived to bring 
Demetrius and Chiron into his power which was easy for him to 
do as they were unaware that he had discovered their guiltiness; 
he said that unless they aided him in his preparations for the ban- 
quet he would refuse to summon Lucius into Rome, and they, who 



TITUS ANDRONICUS 355 

knew the plot to murder Lucius, attempted to further it by con- 
senting to whatever Andronicus demanded. And when Demetrius 
and Chiron came within the house of Andronicus, they were set upon 
and bound by his retainers; and Andronicus then slew them, saying 
that their death could only partially repay the murder of his sons, 
and the injuries they worked upon Lavinia. 

When the emperor and Tamora came to the banquet, Andronicus 
made known to them that he had killed Demetrius and Chiron and 
suddenly uplifting his sword he said that Tamora, the partner of 
their guilt, should not survive them; and he slew the wicked queen 
with his own hand as he had slain her sons before her. And when 
in the confusion that followed, Andronicus was himself killed by 
Saturninus, Lucius, who had left his army and hurried into Rome, 
attacked the emperor with such violent anger that Saturninus could 
not withstand him but fell beneath his sword. And in this terrible 
manner the family of the brave Andronicus came to an end. They 
did not die, however, before a complete revenge had been worked 
upon their enemies, for even Aaron, the Moor, was captured 
and put to death by Lucius. And Lucius was proclaimed the 
emperor of Rome, succeeding Saturninus to that power; and the 
Romans in acclaiming him their ruler did so no more for his own 
sake than out of respect for the memory of his brave father, whose 
unhappy death was greatly lamented by them all. 



THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 

JOHN, a wicked and hard-hearted prince, came to rule over 
the English people on the death of his brother Richard; 
and possessing none of Richard's virtues, soon was feared 
and hated throughout his entire kingdom. For John would take 
delight in working injury on his unhappy subjects, who were with- 
held by force of arms alone from rising in rebellion against him. 
He would tax them unjustly and afflict them with inhuman punish- 
ments; the dismal terrors of his prisons were rivalled only by th,e 
wickedness of his court, where no man was safe from the evil 
passions that awaited, like attendant devils, on their lord and 
master, the king. There were many also who believed that John 
had usurped the title of king that he so misused from his young 
nephew, Arthur, for Arthur was son to John's elder brother, and 
therefore, as many wise persons claimed in secret, should have 
worn the crown before his most unnatural uncle. Arthur, more- 
over, who was but a child, possessed a gentle and sunny nature, 
far removed from the gloomy temper of the tyrant, John. 

Arthur's claim to the English kingdom afforded to the king of 
France, whose name was Philip, a pretext to interfere in English 
affairs, and seek excuse thereby for making war and increasing his 
own power and dominion. The lady Constance, Arthur's mother, 
continually besought Philip to direct his armies against England, 
until her son should be made lord and king of it; and Philip saw 
in Arthur's title to the crown, fair opportunity. Philip sent an 
imperious message to King John, demanding him to render up his 
borrowed majesty to Arthur, his nephew. Should John refuse, 
said Philip, the proud control of bloody war should force him to 
the will of France. 

But John, like many other tyrants, having no good affections and 

356 



THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 357 

no generous and kindly virtues wherein most men are wont in some 
degree to take their pleasure, held his crown more precious on this 
account, esteeming his high power all the more dear as he put it to 
baser usage. When John received this message from the French, 
he assembled in rage as many soldiers as he could call together, 
resolving to make King Philip bitterly repent his rash intrusion. 
And John's invading army reached France as soon as Philip's own 
ambassador, who was returning in hot haste to bid his king beware 
of England's approaching power, for John had warned this lord 
to be as swift as lightning in the eyes of France, or the English 
swords should be their own wrathful messengers. With John 
came his mother, the proud Elinor, and his niece the lady Blanche 
of Spain; for at such a time it was no way unusual for ladies of 
high rank to attend their lords on their adventures over seas; and 
they were accompanied by an army of fiery soldiers, — youths with 
ladies' faces but fierce dragons' spleens, who were resolved to win 
their fortunes by their swords. This assemblage of rash and 
dauntless spirits came on King Philip without the walls of Angiers, 
a town that Philip purposed to besiege until its citizens, who were 
English subjects, should hail young Arthur as their king. 

Ere the two armies should meet in battle, these warlike rulers 
themselves met before the city walls, and at this meeting were 
present all who were concerned in any manner with their quarrel 
— the boy Arthur with his mother Constance, Elinor and the lady 
Blanche, the French prince who was called the dauphin, and many 
statesmen of both kingdoms. 

The bitterness between John and Philip, however, was rendered, 
if possible, even sharper by this encounter, where an unseemly 
wrangle took place between Queen Elinor and Constance. For 
each of these mothers, in seeking to behold her own son king of 
England, could invent no taunt or reproach too bitter for her 
rival, until Arthur himself begged them to desist, saying that such 
hard words ill become their kinship and that he was little worth 
the broil that had arisen over his title; and the unhappy child 



358 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

wished that he were laid low in his grave, so that he might escape 
the rank contention caused by his noble birth, which was, he said, 
no fault of his, who had not power to shape his destiny. 

Philip, who wished to put an end to the dispute, which John's 
swift action had made him suddenly eager to conclude, proposed 
that quarrel should be laid in its entirety before the citizens of 
Angiers, saying, that they should speak whose title they admitted, 
Arthur's or John's; and he bade his trumpeters to summon the 
citizens to the walls where he would parley with them. 

When the townsmen came to the parley, John artfully addressed 
them, commanding them to throw open their gates to him, their right- 
ful king; while Philip bade them pay the duty that they truly owed, 
to Arthur, who, as king of England, was lord of their fair city. 

The townsmen, however, would acknowledge the title of neither, 
saying that their claims appeared so equal, that Angiers for the 
present should be closed against them both. When it should be 
decided who might truly be England's king, then, said these prudent 
citizens, they would freely acknowledge him their lord. Until that 
time, however, their strong gates were to be barred against the 
world. 

There was then no other course but for John and Philip to de- 
cide their claims by battle and their armies immediately advanced 
upon each other in conflict; but their forces were so evenly matched 
that neither side could win advantage, and after a bloody battle, 
French and English came again before the walls of Angiers, each 
side claiming victory and demanding that the city gates now be 
thrown open to their cause. 

The townsmen, however, still refused to admit them, saying that 
from their towers they had beheld the onset and retire of both 
armies, where blows had answered blows and power confronted 
power. To the demands of John and Philip, they replied that 
until the issue be more certainly decided, they should hold their 
gates fast locked, and admit neither. 

Among the nobles who attended John was a knight, whose father 



THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 359 

had been no other than the former mighty king, Richard the Lion- 
hearted, This knight, who was born out of wedlock, could never 
inherit any of the titles that had formerly belonged to his great 
father, but being a fierce and resolute soldier with a thirst for wild 
adventure, he had become a powerful adviser of King John and 
a commander in the English army. Richard, for so he was called, 
proposed an issue from the difficulty that suited well his own rash 
temper, saying that both French and English should proclaim a 
truce and jointly bend their sharpest deeds of malice on the town 
that defied them. When Angiers lay in dust, there would then be 
time to part their mingled colours in angry war, until one side, 
favoured by fortune, should gain victory. The rival kings liked 
this counsel well, and agreed for the while to knit their powers, 
level Angiers to the ground and then renew their wars upon each 
other. But the townsmen were much dismayed and not without 
cause, at hearing this bloody proposal, which would mean, whatever 
the outcome of the battle, that Angiers must lie in ruins. Accord- 
ingly, their wits made sharp by danger to themselves, they hit on 
a plan whereby peace could be gained not only for their city, but 
for France and England as well. 

They bade the kings hear them, saying that their city might be 
won without stroke or wounds and all the breathing lives that 
come as sacrifices for their wars likewise be rescued. And they bade 
both John and Philip to look on the lady Blanche, the niece of John, 
and on Lewis the dauphin, Philip's son; where beauty, youth and 
rich estate were all complete save in the union of their marriage. 
Let them wed, said the men of Angiers, and all the contending 
powers would be united, the city gates unlocked as though by 
magic and the banners of both armies furled in peace. And John 
knew that in this match lay his most certain safety, while Philip was 
not loath to wed his son to a lady of such wealth and power as 
Blanche. 

In the wedding, therefore, these kings believed they had effected 
a happy compromise, whereby each side should benefit, and the bells 



360 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

of Angiers rang out joyfully, proclaiming peace, good union of the 
hostile armies and a marriage that gave promise of all faith and 
true alliance. 

But Constance, Arthur's mother, remained angry and sorrow- 
ful in her tent, for by this peace her cause had been forsaken 
and Arthur forever barred and disinherited from his kingdom. 
Looking on Arthur, who bade his mother be content with her ill 
fortune, Constance said that were he grim, ugly and slanderous 
to her that bore him, lame and foolish, or patched with foul, un- 
sightly marks, he would then disgrace his noble birth and be 
unworthy of the name of king. But Arthur, as she said, was fair 
and kind of heart, and at his birth Nature had joined with Fortune 
to make him great. Of Nature's gifts he could boast with the 
lily and the half-blown rose, while his inner self was of a rare and 
winning gentleness. And Constance, with noble dignity, bade King 
Philip to think shame for thus deserting her, to conclude false 
amity and painted peace with the evil-hearted John. 

Philip, however, was not long to benefit by this alliance, for 
John had incurred the anger of the pope of Rome, whose legate 
came upon him even while the lady Constance spoke these bitter 
words. This deputy, a cardinal named Pandulph, pronounced 
Rome's curse upon the English kingdom, saying that John was ex- 
communicate, and in all England the mass should be unsaid, the 
church bells silent, the dead unburied, or laid within their graves 
without a single prayer for their departed souls; blessed should be 
the subjects that revolted from John's power, while the assassin who 
might strike him dead, or end by any secret course his hateful life, 
should be worshipped as a saint. And Pandulph bade King Philip 
leave the hand and the alliance of the heretic and traitor, John, for 
otherwise, said he, France too should fall beneath the most severe 
displeasure and the blighting ban of Rome. 

Philip feared the anger of the pope even more than further bat- 
tle with the English, and he told King John that he did now re- 
nounce his proffered friendship; and John and Philip became again 



THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 361 

embattled enemies, further conflict coming to pass between them. 

Here and now misfortune came to the unhappy Constance and a 
terrible fate befell her innocent boy, Arthur, who was captured 
by John's soldiers and taken prisoner to England. And John him- 
self returned in triumph to his country, believing that as he was now 
the master of Arthur's fate, he could command the destinies of his 
own. 

It was not to be thought that John would forego the advantage 
gained in such manner over his enemies; and thinking only how 
Arthur's title had awakened angry war, and how the boy was, as he 
expressed it, a serpent in his path, over whose dead body only could 
he pass to safety, John concluded, therefore, to murder Arthur 
within the secrecy of his prisons. John had a retainer whose name 
was Hubert de Burgh, to whom he deputed the carrying out of his 
evil intent upon his nephew; and he conceived a vengeance to be 
worked on Arthur that is almost unbelievable, for not content with 
putting him to death, he gave Hubert a written warrant attached 
with the royal seal, commanding that Arthur's eyes be burned with 
red hot irons ; and while it is incredible to think that any man, how- 
ever monstrous, should undertake so foul an errand, Hubert actually 
prepared to afflict the tender prince with his abominable torture. 

Hubert bade some rough men to attend him, and summoned 
Arthur to his presence; and Arthur, as was his custom, greeted Hu- 
bert cheerily for Hubert hitherto had always treated him with kind- 
ness. Beholding the fair child in such sad circumstance, Hubert 
was strangely affected by his youth and innocence, and was com- 
pelled to turn aside and weep, chiding the while the foolish and 
womanly tears that fell from his eyes. Arthur remarked on Hu- 
bert's sadness, who replied that indeed he had often been far mer- 
rier. He then gave Arthur the warrant and bade him read, asking 
with a show of gruffness if it were not fairly writ that Arthur took 
so long in gazing at it; and he told him to prepare, for there was 
no remedy, bidding his men approach, bind Arthur to a chair, and 
work their inhuman purpose upon him. 



362 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

" Oh, Hubert," cried Arthur, " send these men away. I will not 
stir nor wince nor look upon the iron angerly. Thrust but these 
men away and I will forgive whatever torment you do put me to." 

" Even though I send them forth," said Hubert, " you must pre- 
pare to lose your eyes." 

" Oh, spare me," cried Arthur, " would there were but a mote in 
yours, — a grain, a speck of dust, a wandering hair; for then your 
vile intent must needs seem horrible ! See, the iron is now cold and 
will not harm me ! " 

" But I can heat it, boy," said Hubert. 

" No, in God's name you cannot ! " cried Arthur. " The fire is 
dead with grief. Look, Hubert, there is no more malice in this 
burning coal. The breath of Heaven has blown its anger out and 
strewed repentant ashes on its head." 

" But with my breath I can revive it," said Hubert. 

" And if you do," replied Arthur, " you will but make it blush 
and glow with shame at your proceedings; nay, the fire will, per- 
chance, sparkle in your eyes, who do kindle it against its will. All 
things you should use to wrong me, Hubert, will deny their office 
— only you who lack their mercy." And Arthur reminded Hubert 
of a time when he gave to him to bind his aching brows, his own 
best handkerchief — never so much as asking it again, although a 
princess had wrought it for him — and how one night, when Hu- 
bert was ailing, Arthur had soothed his head with his own hand and 
cheered the heavy time of pain until it passed. 

Hubert could bear his words no longer and cried out for him 
to say no more, for he would not harm him — not for his uncle's 
wealth and all the riches in the world. He bade Arthur sleep se- 
cure, saying that he would guard him from all future danger and 
tell the king that his nephew had indeed been put to death; and 
Arthur thanked him tenderly, until Hubert commanded him to be 
silent and follow him into some secret place, for that he underwent 
much danger in sparing him. 

John, in the meanwhile, had born himself so rashly against the 



THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 363 

people that they were on the point of overthrowing him; and sev- 
eral of his best advisers besought him to set young Arthur free, for, 
they said, if mischance should come to the innocent boy, and the 
people learned it, John's best fortunes would be ruined forever. 
John replied that he would do as they counselled and set Arthur at 
liberty, but even before their audience was over, Hubert came and 
whispered to him that Arthur was dead. 

" My lords," said John, " over the laws of fate we have no 
power. Young Arthur is deceased to-night," and he turned pale 
when he beheld how all regarded him; for his noblemen, on hearing 
this news, fell from him with looks of horror, shrinking away as 
though from pestilence. John then turned on Hubert, who, he said, 
was the cause of all this mischief, and he called Hubert a bold 
villain who obeyed too eagerly all hints to crime and who had read 
into his royal words a meaning that was not there. He bade 
Hubert begone and never see him more, for he detested him; 
and he said that he had cause for wishing Arthur's death, but Hu- 
bert had none to kill him. It was ever the fate of kings, John said, 
to be attended thus by hateful fiends, who at a hint would pleasure 
their own evil hearts. 

" Your majesty," said Huber% " although I had your hand and 
seal for this foul work, I did it not. Young Arthur lives." He 
then told John how pity had withheld his hand and how Arthur lay 
concealed. 

The king on hearing this, bade Hubert haste and tell the nobles 
that report had lied, and Hubert came upon them without the walls 
of Arthur's prison where they had gone in search of his body. But 
Hubert, on drawing near, saw that they wept and that their heads 
were bowed for grief; and he beheld amid them the lifeless body 
of Arthur. In terror at what had passed, the unhappy child had 
endeavoured to escape by leaping from the prison wall, whence he 
had fallen on cruel stones that killed him. But the noblemen who 
beheld Hubert approaching, trembled with abhorrence and drew 
their swords, for they believed that Hubert had been the instrument 



364 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

of Arthur's death. And still they wept, calling on Heaven to 
witness that so foul a deed had never seen its like upon the face 
of all the earth. Only one of them, King Richard's son, kept them 
from slaying Hubert, and Richard alone remained faithful to King 
John. For Hubert's own deep sorrow at beholding Arthur dead 
gave this lord to know that he was innocent. The rest, however, 
bore their swords and their allegiance to the king of France, and 
spread throughout the country the foul news of Arthur's murder. 

When the people learned that Arthur had been made away with, 
as they believed by the hand of the king, his uncle, they rose in 
thousands against John, and they welcomed to their shores the 
invading fleet that France had sent to overthrow him. And the 
news of Arthur's death affected them in a strange and ominous 
manner, for the smith at his forge would pause in the middle of a 
blow to nod grimly and roll up his eyes at hearing of it, the tailor 
and tradesman would drop their work and rush out of doors to 
impart the news to all their neighbours; and men who passed 
through the streets would turn pale and draw their weapons when 
they heard. 

John was still able, however, to collect an army, and some of his 
captains still remained unshaken from him. To strengthen him- 
self, he summoned to him Cardinal Pandulph, the pope's legate who 
had laid his kingdom under a curse before the walls of Angiers, 
and John ignobly submitted himself through Pandulph to the law 
of Rome, so that the curse should be removed, for he knew that 
Pandulph would then bid the French withdraw their army from 
England. 

The French, however, beholding England so nearly conquered, 
refused to obey the cardinal's order, and it surely seemed as though 
just retribution must overtake the English king. And John, in lead- 
ing his army to the coming battle with the French was secretly 
poisoned, so that he lay helpless and dying of a burning fever while 
the French and his own revolted subjects triumphed in battle over 
the royal army. And the last words that fell upon John's ear were 



THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 365 

that his power was completely overthrown, and that the French 
and his subjects were everywhere victorious, having triumphed no 
more from their own strength than from hatred of him who opposed 
them; and in the death of this cruel king the fate of Arthur was in 
some measure revenged. 

On hearing of John's death, the English concluded peace with 
their invaders, refusing, now that they were rid of the king they 
hated, to fight any longer against their countrymen. And the 
French, who had also suffered great reverses, were glad enough to 
return to their own country, knowing that they never could take 
England now that she had been freed from the affliction of the in- 
famous King John. 



THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND 

RICHARD the Second, king of England, possessed none of 
the great qualities that made his grandfather, King Ed- 
ward, famous; for Richard did not seek to win renown in 
foreign wars, or to benefit his country with the contentment of a 
time of peace. While the English people should have prospered 
in the happy quiet that had befallen their country, Richard, their 
king, lived with idle and profuse extravagance, requiring great sums 
of money for his royal pleasures, — more, indeed, than Edward, his 
grandfather, would have needed to win victories in France. Rich- 
ard seemed not content with squandering his own treasure, but 
sought to obtain gold by unjust means, for he would tax his subjects 
unlawfully, or call for loans that he intended never to repay. The 
gold that he obtained was soon dispelled as if in air, and the king 
of England seemed like a magician, who caused what he would 
touch to vanish from his hand, until the English people became 
angered that their country showed no visible or outward benefit from 
all this spending. As it is assured that a wicked king must ever 
reap the hatred of his subjects, a king who rules unwisely will surely 
win contempt that in the end may drive him from his throne; and 
the statesmen surrounding Richard feared for the future safety of 
their country, and their king. Most gravely of them all did Rich- 
ard's uncle, John of Gaunt, fear for him — for John of Gaunt was a 
nobleman of age and deep experience who knew too well the out- 
come of such giddy and profuse extravagance as Richard's. 

John of Gaunt had a son named Henry Bolingbroke who was 
of far different temper from his royal cousin, for Bolingbroke, al- 
though hasty in anger, was a soldier of vast courage, stern and 
resolute, skilled in the laws of government and greatly respected 
by the English people, who held King Richard in but light esteem. 

3 66 



KING RICHARD THE SECOND 367 

And whether from loyalty to England or from secret designs of his 
own for future greatness, Bolingbroke did what lay in his power to 
win the love of all the people in the land. 

It came to pass that Bolingbroke accused the Duke of Norfolk 
of treachery against King Richard, and before Richard himself, 
Bolingbroke declared his charges against Norfolk, who denied them 
utterly. The anger of these noblemen was so great, that in the 
presence of their sovereign they fell into a hot dispute, charging 
each other with bitter crimes and dangerous treason to their country, 
and each of them cast down his glove at the feet of his enemy 
in challenge to mortal combat. When the king attempted to check 
this unseemly quarrel, commanding them to make their peace, for 
he would have no civil bloodshed in his kingdom, Bolingbroke and 
Norfolk showed the slight regard in which they held him, by re- 
fusing to obey. They implored Richard to appoint a day when 
they might settle their dispute by strength of arms, which was be- 
lieved at that time to be a certain means of learning the truth of 
any quarrel; and Richard at last appeared to consent to their 
request, so that these two hot-headed noblemen prepared to meet 
each other on horseback in deadly battle, armed from head to 
foot and bearing swords and lances, as their own high rank and 
all the rules of chivalry required. 

But Richard, thinking how Bolingbroke and Norfolk had dis- 
regarded his own royal presence in their quarrel, and how their 
rage might in part be feigned to hide in themselves the very treason 
that so angrily they heaped upon each other, secretly determined 
that this combat never should take place between them, resolving 
to punish them as severely as their guilt, in his belief, should justify. 
So, when the two opponents armed at all points had entered in 
the lists and were awaiting the signal to begin their battle, Richard 
cast down his staff as a sign that they must cease, and he bade 
them lay aside their spears and helmets and hear what he had 
decreed. He pronounced on Bolingbroke the sentence of banish- 
ment, saying that for ten long years he must wander in foreign 



368 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

countries and turn his back upon the fair dominions of his native 
soil, where, said Richard, it would be death for him to return 
before the limit of his exile had expired. To the Duke of Norfolk, 
Richard then said his penalty was even heavier, and that he pro- 
nounced it on this account with some unwillingness : for Norfolk 
should become a hopeless exile, and the words " never to return " 
were breathed against him. 

" A sentence," said Norfolk, " as heavy as unlooked for from 
your Highness' mouth, and I have deserved far better at your hands 
than to receive so deep a wound." For now that English was 
banished from his lips, he must forgo, he said, the use of speech, 
being too old to become a pupil; and his exile would be no better 
than a silent death, since he could hold no further converse with 
his countrymen or listen to the known and dear accents of his 
native tongue. But Bolingbroke, who had fair hopes of a return 
to England, received his sentence with less show of grief. Turn- 
ing to the Duke of Norfolk, Bolingbroke bade him, now that he 
was an exile and could no longer fear the anger of the king, to 
confess his treason, saying that Norfolk had far to go, and bidding 
him bear not along the burden of a guilty heart. 

Norfolk, however, replied that if he were a traitor, as Bolingbroke 
accused him, he wished his name to be blotted from the book of 
life and that he should be banished from heaven as well as from 
the country of his birth; and he said to Bolingbroke, " proud man, 
call me traitor if you will, but what you are, God, you and I do 
know, and all too soon, I fear, the king shall learn and have good 
reason to repent." 

Norfolk then took his departure, bidding them all farewell with 
sorrowful words; and it seemed from the manner of his leave- 
taking that he was guiltless of the crimes that had been laid against 
him. 

But the king, observing the troubled look of his uncle, John of 
Gaunt, whose sorrow at the banishment of his dear son was great 
and plain to see, said to him that his grieved aspect had plucked 



KING RICHARD THE SECOND 369 

away four years from his son's banishment, and Bolingbroke might 
now return after six winters with welcome to his native country. 

Old John of Gaunt, however, knew too well that before that 
time should pass, his life, far spent with age would be extinct; and 
to the king he said he could not hope to see his son again, calling 
his own life an oil-dried lamp that before long must flicker out in 
endless night. He bade his son farewell with much affection, bid- 
ding him regard his banishment as a willing journey undertaken 
with gladness and a happy heart, for sorrow, said this wise old 
man, weighs all the heavier when it is hardly borne; but when it 
is regarded lightly and suffered with a cheerful patience some of 
its harmful power is taken from it. And John of Gaunt concealed 
his own sorrow to cheer the departing steps of Bolingbroke; but 
none the less he was afflicted by the loss of his beloved son until 
he fell into a severe illness, and he knew that death at no long 
period must put an end to his unhappiness. 

Before he died, John of Gaunt desired to chide the king for his 
reckless and unthrifty ways that must soon destroy his country and 
himself, for all the land was being laid in waste by the thoughtless 
extravagance of its spendthrift ruler. While Richard always had 
refused to hear advice, his uncle believed that such a warning, 
spoken from a bed of pain and grievous sickness, would have effect 
upon him, for he knew that the tongues of dying men enforce at- 
tention, and when words are scarce they seldom can be spent in 
vain. So John of Gaunt sent word to Richard that he lay dying, 
and besought the king to visit him before the brief remainder of 
his life was ended; and he spoke to Richard sternly of his gross 
folly, contrasting it with the great wisdom of the former king. He 
said that the waste caused by Richard was no whit less than the 
extent of his dominions, that a thousand flatterers attended him; 
that he himself who was about to die beheld the king who stood 
before him in a state of death even more terrible — as wide and 
far reaching as his dominions that were perishing from the neglect 
of their own ruler. When Richard in great anger threatened him 



370 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

for speaking so to his own sovereign, saying that were he not of 
kindred blood his head should pay the forfeit of such words, John 
of Gaunt bade Richard not to spare him on that account, for kindred 
blood he had already drunkenly caroused, meaning the Duke of 
Gloucester, his own brother and Richard's uncle, whom Richard 
had unjustly put to death. He bade his nephew to continue in 
his shame, but said that shame should not die with him in his grave, 
and that Richard would be forced to think upon his words and 
make them his tormentors in the future. The old man spoke no 
more, and word was soon brought to the king that John of Gaunt 
had died. 

When Richard heard these too just words of blame, instead of 
taking them to heart or thinking of the consequence of his own 
acts that sooner or later must fall upon him, he fell into a rage 
against his uncle that was not allayed by hearing of his death. 
As if in defiance of the wise counsel that lately had been given him, 
he determined on an act of injustice greater than any he had ever 
yet committed — an outrage against his uncle who lay dead and 
against Bolingbroke, who by this time had departed in banishment. 
For a sudden revolt having arisen in Ireland, Richard knew not 
where to raise the money for a war against the Irish rebels, and he 
purposed to take John of Gaunt's estate, — all his lands and money, 
his horses and his silver, all that should have been inherited by 
Bolingbroke, and with this wealth the king prepared to muster an 
army and set sail for Ireland, hoping to overthrow the enemies that 
defied him. 

There was great anger among the noblemen at this unjust and 
violent proceeding, and many sought to dissuade Richard from an 
act of such dishonour. The Duke of York, Richard's only uncle 
who now remained alive, warned him to desist, saying that such 
a deed must bear most bitter consequence against the king who 
lowered his great power to rob an absent and defenceless man. 
But Richard refused to regard this warning, and seized into his 
hands all that had been left to Bolingbroke by John of Gaunt; 



KING RICHARD THE SECOND 371 

and a number of noblemen determined now to serve no longer under 
such a tyrant as King Richard. Word was sent to Bolingbroke 
of what had taken place, and many fled to offer him their service, 
for it was soon rumoured that Bolingbroke was returning to Eng- 
land to revenge himself upon the king. 

The report of Bolingbroke's return caused great dismay among 
the few persons that remained loyal to Richard — chiefly to his 
uncle, the Duke of York, who ruled the country while Richard was 
absent in Ireland. When the news was known to be true, and 
Bolingbroke was said to be collecting a mighty army, swollen alike 
by noblemen and peasants that rejoiced in the chance to overthrow 
the king they hated, even the Duke of York knew not where to turn 
for aid, or how to protect his country from the danger that was 
threatening it. For Richard had wrung from his dominions the 
last farthing that he could extort to lead his army into Ireland, and 
no money was to be had to meet a war against the might of Boling- 
broke, to whose banners the English had flocked in prodigious 
numbers. And when King Richard made a quick return to England, 
he beheld that all his land rejoiced openly in the mischance that had 
come upon him : for even women had gone to the wars, and old men 
and boys had armed themselves against their king. 

Now did the king remember the words of his late uncle, John 
of Gaunt. The flatterers that in more happy days had seemed to 
support his power now had fled and joined the army of his enemies. 
The noblemen whose greatness in the land was most complete, had 
likewise joined Bolingbroke. And Richard, when he asked for the 
Duke of York, into whose charge he had entrusted the whole of his 
kingdom, received a piece of news that showed him how irrevocably 
he was lost; for York himself had fled to the enemy, feeling utterly 
convinced that none could stand against him. There remained 
nothing but for Richard to shut himself within his strongest castle 
and seek to make what terms he could with the enraged lord 
whose vengeance he had brought upon himself. 

To the castle where Richard had taken refuge came the proud 



372 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

army of Bolingbroke, who demanded a parley with the king. 
Richard, accompanied by the lords that still remained faithful 
to him showed himself upon the walls to answer Bolingbroke; and 
although the sun of his past fortune was now set, and he could 
hope for little from the foes who thus defied him, Richard gazed 
on them with haughty majesty of bearing and conducted himself 
still as though he were more powerful than his enemies. He said 
that he was amazed to see his subjects in such show of arms against 
him, asking how they dared so to forget themselves as not to kneel 
before him where they stood. From the Earl of Northumberland 
Richard demanded that he show the hand that had dismissed him 
from his kingship, and he bade Northumberland to tell to Boling- 
broke who stood nearby, that every step he took on English ground 
was dangerous treason. For Richard said that he had been crowned 
by God to rule the land of England as his fathers had ruled before 
him, and although he was now bereft of friends, pestilence and sor- 
row should fall upon the subjects who should dare to lift their hands 
against his throne. 

Bolingbroke, however, while he secretly desired to win the crown 
and intended nothing less than to depose King Richard and place 
himself in royal power, was not prepared as yet to disclose to his 
followers the full extent of his purpose. He replied to the king 
that he had come but to take back again his own possessions and 
to seek repeal of the sentence of banishment that had been passed 
upon him. If this request were granted he would soon disperse 
his army. And he sent to Richard as a messenger the Earl of 
Northumberland to assure the king of his good will and generous 
intentions toward him. 

But the king had no sooner consented to Bolingbroke's terms than 
Bolingbroke made further demands upon him, for he requested 
that Richard descend from off the walls and parley with him in 
the castle court; and at this King Richard perceived that his cousin, 
while pretending homage and fair treatment, was secretly deter- 
mined to work his ruin; and Richard lost completely his assurance 



KING RICHARD THE SECOND 373 

of mind and the royalty of his bearing, crying out, " What must 
the king do now to please his cousin? Must he submit? He is 
content to do so. Must he lose the name of king? In God's name 
let it go ! " He said that he would give away his jewels for a set of 
beads and his scepter for a palmer's staff; his subjects he would 
exchange for a pair of carved saints that he might pray to, and 
in return for all his kingdom he desired only an obscure grave. Or, 
better still, said Richard, let him be buried in the king's highway, 
where subjects' feet hourly might trample on his head as they had 
trod upon his heart while yet he was alive. And Richard gave him- 
self into the power of his cousin, who proceeded then to march 
toward London, bearing the king a prisoner into the city. 

No sooner did Bolingbroke attain power over Richard, than he 
commenced with all his noblemen to compel the captive king to 
resign the crown and to do it as though of his own choice and 
free will, for thus, thought Bolingbroke, his new title would be 
strengthened against wars to take from him what he had won. And 
Richard, whose spirit had become weakened in his captivity, soon 
consented to this hard-hearted measure and prepared to give away 
in public all his high authority, his crown and his robes of office 
to Bolingbroke. 

In the presence of the nobles and many witnesses, the unfortunate 
Richard was summoned from his place of imprisonment, and he 
came with such show of grief that even his enemies were moved to 
pity as they looked upon him. And he asked why he was sent for to 
a king, .and cried, " God save the king! " asking if no man present 
would say amen. Again he demanded for what service he had 
been summoned, and the Duke of York then told him he must pub- 
licly make offer of his state and crown to Bolingbroke. 

Richard then lifted the crown and gave it to his cousin, bidding 
him seize upon it; and when Bolingbroke asked if he were not 
willing to resign, and that he thought it had been done of his own 
free will, Richard answered that he gave away his crown but that 
his griefs were still his own. None the less, said Richard, he 



374 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

washed away his balm with his own tears and plucked away his 
crown with his own hand; and he cried, " God save King Henry 
and send him many years of sunshine days," asking what more 
remained that he must do. 

The Earl of Northumberland replied that Richard must read a 
list of the grievous crimes that he had committed against his 
country, so that all men might think that he was worthily deposed. 

" Must I do this? " said Richard. " Gentle Northumberland, if 
your offenses were on record would it not shame you in such a 
company to read them?" And when Northumberland gave him 
the written paper, Richard said that his eyes were too full of tears 
to gaze upon it, and yet, he said, salt water had not blinded them 
so much but that he saw a group of traitors that surrounded him. 
But turning his eyes upon himself, he saw, he said, that he, too, was 
a traitor with the rest, for giving consent to make his glory base, 
and from his state of king to become a slave. He called for a 
mirror, saying he would look therein and see how he appeared 
since he had lost his majesty; and beholding his face the same, where 
sorrow as yet had struck no visible marks of grief, he dashed the 
mirror from his hand and shattered it. And Richard then was 
taken to the castle of Pomfret where Bolingbroke commanded that he 
should be kept in close confinement. 

On his way to prison Richard met his queen and took a sorrowful 
leave of her, for Bolingbroke had ordered her into banishment, 
bidding her return to France whence she had come as Richard's 
bride. And after Bolingbroke was crowned, Richard was shut up 
within a dungeon where he beheld no man except the jailer who 
would bring him daily food, who seemed, as Richard said, to offer 
it only to prolong the misery that he wished were at an end. And 
the poor, forsaken Richard tried to reconcile his mind to his captiv- 
ity, passing the time by thinking that he still was king of England, 
or again that he had been unkinged by Bolingbroke and how the 
people had thrown dust and refuse on his head when he was brought 
a prisoner to London. And the thoughts of Richard were desperate 



KING RICHARD THE SECOND 375 

and melancholy, until it seemed that he must soon forgo his reason 
and become mad. 

In all his former kingdom there was one man, however, who still 
remained loyal to Richard and desired even then to serve him. 
This was a poor groom who formerly had been employed in the 
royal stables. And this groom prevailed upon the gaolers of King 
Richard that he be allowed to look again upon the face of his 
former master; and forgetting in his joy the changed state that 
had befallen Richard, he called him " royal prince " with all signs 
of true loyalty and affection, telling him that he had laboured hard 
to see him, and how his heart had ached when he beheld Boling- 
broke in the coronation riding on Richard's own horse, Barbary, 
who bore him proudly, seeming to disdain the ground. And 
Richard cried out in grief on hearing this, for Barbary had 
been his favourite steed and often had been fed from his own 
hand. 

Bolingbroke, although he was crowned king, feared lest Richard 
might regain his liberty and stir up war against him. And once 
he exclaimed in anger, asking if he had no friends who would rid 
him of the living fear of Richard's presence. While Bolingbroke 
refused to order Richard's death, he secretly desired it, and his wish 
was known to his followers, one of whom believed that if he 
should slay Richard, Bolingbroke would give him rich reward for 
freeing him of a tormenting terror. 

This knight, who was called Sir Pierce of Exton, came to Pomfret 
shortly after the groom had departed from Richard's presence; and 
he burst into the cell with armed servants who set on Richard with 
their weapons, seeking to strike him down. And although Richard 
bravely endeavoured to defend himself, he was soon wounded mor- 
tally, overborne by the strength and numbers of those that beset 
him. And he died nobly as a king, while those that slew him, 
marking how courageously he met his end, were stricken with a 
sudden shame and sorrow. And they brought his body to Boling- 
broke, who showed a sincere grief on seeing it. 



376 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Thus this unfortunate king whose fate, although brought upon 
him by himself, seemed far more terrible than he deserved, lost both 
his country and his life ; and Henry the Fourth ruled over England 
in his stead. 



THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH 

PRINCE HAL, the eldest son of Henry the Fourth and due 
successor to the crown of England, caused his father many 
doubts and anxieties; for the young prince thought little of 
preparing himself for his high office, but haunted the taverns of 
Eastcheap, surrounded himself with dissolute supporters and, to 
all appearance, cared for no other pastime than drinking, dicing 
and brawling with his wild companions. 

The looseness and seeming indifference on the part of the young 
prince was rendered even darker by the brilliance of a youth of his 
own age named Harry Percy, son to the Earl of Northumberland, 
but more widely known as Hotspur — for Percy bore himself in 
battle with such fury that this nickname had been given him, and 
was, withal, so skillful and brave a soldier that he commanded 
many noblemen far older than himself. The king with a sigh often 
wished that his son were the Percy and Hotspur the Plantagenet, 
for while Percy distinguished himself as any prince, the king 
beheld riot and dishonour stain the brow of his young Harry, who, 
he feared, would work the ruin of his subjects. 

But the same high spirit that won for Hotspur his fame on the 
battle-field caused him to be impatient of submission, unwilling to 
render to the king a proper deference; and when his sovereign de- 
manded of him certain prisoners, Hotspur refused to give them up, 
asking for their ransom the recall of his banished relative, Mortimer : 
so that the king in no uncertain terms warned Hotspur never again 
to speak of a rebel who had incurred the royal displeasure and bade 
him on pain of severe punishment to deliver up his prisoners at once 
and with no further words. 

Hotspur, angered at this tyranny, for so he called it, rose in re- 
bellion against the king, and with him rose his father, the Earl of 

377 



378 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Northumberland and many powerful noblemen joined them, chief 
of whom were the Archbishop of York and the Earl of Worcester. 
As they had placed Henry upon the throne by force of arms against 
King Richard, they plotted to drive him from it with an equal vio- 
lence, and to crown as king no other than Mortimer himself. 

At this very time the young prince was engaged in his usual pur- 
suits and had devised a marvelous jest on his monstrous friend and 
follower, Sir John Falstaff — the dishonest knight who ruled in 
taverns, loved a capon only less than he loved sack and best of all 
delighted to go a thieving; for, closely as Sir John hugged his quart 
pot and his roast, he called himself one of Diana's foresters, — a 
highwayman, a minion of the moon. Well from the rear would 
he cheer on his retainers, roaring out commands in an awful voice 
to the terror of honest men ! 

This fat rascal had besought Prince Hal to go with him on one 
of these same sallies, a robbing expedition to Gadshill; and the 
prince, with his friend Poins, determined to accompany Falstaff 
thither, but for a purpose far different from what the rogue imag- 
ined. Disguised in suits of buckram, the prince and Poins pro- 
posed to fall upon the thieves themselves and take their booty from 
them, the virtue of which, Poins said, would be the uncomprehensi- 
ble lies that Falstaff would tell them at supper: — how thirty at 
least he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he 
endured, and in reproving him would lie the jest. 

So, while the king, in great disturbance, had sent in search of his 
wild son, that youth, with Poins, Falstaff and his retainers, had 
issued from their tavern and prepared to waylay the king's subjects; 
and the prince and Poins for their own secret purpose had deserted 
the rest of the company. When the travellers were set upon and 
their purses taken from them, these two in disguise leaped forth upon 
the thieves, who took to their heels in fear for their lives, Falstaff 
roaring and begging for mercy as he fled. 

Poins and the prince then bore to the tavern the money they had 
taken and awaited there the return of the faint-hearted robbers, 



KING HENRY THE FOURTH, FIRST PART 379 

who with swords in their hands and pistols at their sides had suf- 
fered two men to outface them from their prize; and these rascals 
soon made their entrance, Falstaff calling for sack and invoking a 
plague on all cowards, for he believed that the prince and Poins 
had run away even before himself. 

Falstaff said that he could beat such a prince out of his kingdom 
with a dagger of lath and drive his subjects before him like a 
flock of wild geese ; that his party had been set on by an hundred men, 
who had torn their booty from them ; that for two hours he had 
been at half swords with a dozen of them together and escaped 
by a miracle, being eight times thrust through the doublet, four 
through the hose; his buckler cut through and through, his sword 
hacked like a handsaw. He told a monstrous tale of two men in 
buckram suits whom he had encountered, and these two soon grew 
to be four, then seven, then nine, and then eleven, — seven of whom 
Falstaff swore that he had slain with his own hand. 

The prince cried out that these lies were as monstrous as their 
father that begot them, gross as a mountain; and he and Poins dis- 
closed themselves and confounded Falstaff. But the rogue said then 
that he had known them all the while and had refused to raise his 
sword against the person of his own future liege and sovereign; 
though he were as valiant as Hercules, he said, he would not harm 
the heir apparent; and he called them gallant lads and hearts of 
gold and prepared to make merry with them until morning. 

It was at this time that the king's messenger summoned Prince 
Hal to court, where he was at once called to private audience with 
his father, who spoke to him of the foes who had risen in rebellion 
and even then were threatening the crown. In sorrowful words he 
blamed the prince for his past wildness and ill behaviour, saying 
that he knew not but that God had bred revengement out of his 
own blood for some past sin he had committed, otherwise, said he, 
such barren pleasures and rude society could not accompany the 
greatness of his blood and hold their level in a princely heart. 

" Let me wonder, Harry, at your affections," said his father, 



380 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

" which do hold a wing quite from the flight of all your ancestors. 
Your place at council you have rudely lost. You are become almost 
an alien to the hearts of all the court and princes of your blood." 

He said the hope and expectation of Prince Harry's time were 
ruined, and the soul of every man prophetically did forethink his 
fall. In even deeper sorrow he compared his son with the 
weak king, Richard, who likewise grew companion to the common 
streets, until the sun-like presence of his majesty was dimmed and 
no man regarded him; and Hotspur he likened to himself that con- 
quered Richard, saying that even as he had been then, so was Percy 
at that very hour. " Yet wherefore do I tell you this? " he ended. 
" You, Harry, who are like enough to fight against me under Percy's 
pay, to show how much you are degenerate." 

When the prince heard his father speak in this manner, he knew 
that slanderers had borne ill tales against him, for while he had been 
irregular and wild, these were the limits of his vices, and, indeed, 
he had privately resolved to overcome them and put on a better front 
before the world. 

So Harry cried out to the king never to say or believe such things 
against him, exclaiming, " God forgive them that so much have 
swayed your Majesty's good thoughts away from me ! " He vowed 
that all this he would redeem on Percy's head and call him to so 
strict account that he should render every glory up. He said he 
wished his shames were doubled and every honour crowning the 
Percy's helm were multitudes, for he should make this northern 
youth exchange the glorious deeds for the indignities; and he 
swore that, God willing, he should perform what he had promised, 
and would die a hundred thousand deaths ere he should break the 
smallest parcel of his vow. 

" In this," cried the king, " a hundred thousand rebels die," and 
he rejoiced in the change that had befallen his dear son, who he said 
should now have charge and sovereign trust. He commanded 
Harry to set forward in a few days time with the troops that had 
been given him, and to await his own royal presence and the coming 



KING HENRY THE FOURTH, FIRST PART 381 

of other forces at a place called Bridgenorth, there to make headway 
against the rebels. 

In the meanwhile, Hotspur and certain of his confederates, the 
Earl of Worcester and the great Scot, Douglas, were sorely dis- 
turbed at an illness that had befallen the Earl of Northumberland, 
who informed them that he would be delayed in joining their forces. 
They feared that in the lack of this jointure, wanting as they did 
the troops the earl would bring them, they might not stand against 
the soldiers of the king. 

They heard at the same time that the king and the Prince of Wales 
were marching against them; and Hotspur on hearing this forgot 
his disturbance in his usual ardour for battle. He cried out that 
they came like sacrifices in their trim, and should all be offered hot 
and bleeding to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war. He could not 
bear, he said, to hear they were so nigh and yet unconquered; he 
was impatient for his horse which was to bear him like a thunder- 
bolt against the bosom of the Prince of Wales, for Harry to Harry 
should meet and never part till one were slain. 

There was other news for the rebels, and of more evil tenor 
than any that as yet had come to them, for they learned by the same 
messenger that the Welsh soldiers under Glendower could not be 
drawn together under fourteen days; and Hotspur knew that this 
reverse was a deathblow to his cause, for now could he never hope 
to defeat the king; but he resolved, nevertheless, to offer battle with 
all the strength he was able, and the ill wind that blew upon his 
fortune rendered him only keener to slay the Prince of Wales, whom 
he hated with a double hatred, for being heir apparent and son to 
Henry. 

The king, however, held Hotspur and other of his opponents in 
so high regard that he determined not to attack them without a 
final effort to come at peace with no bloodshed; so he sent to the 
rebels as messenger, Sir Walter Blunt, one of his most trusted noble- 
men, who came before Hotspur saying he bore gracious offers from 
his Majesty. 



382 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Hotspur replied that Henry well knew when to promise, when 
to pay. The king, said he, had disgraced him in his victories, rated 
his uncle from the council board and in rage dismissed his father 
from the court, breaking oath on oath, committing wrong on wrong 
until he had driven them to seek out this head of safety. When 
Sir Walter Blunt asked if he should return with this answer, Hot- 
spur bade him tell the king he would withdraw awhile and in the 
morning send the Earl of Worcester with his purposes; for Hotspur 
had been persuaded by his confederates to delay battle in hope of re- 
inforcement and was likewise somewhat moved by the good words of 
the king's messenger. 

In the morning, therefore, the Earl of Worcester went to King 
Henry and learned from him his generous intentions, which were 
that if the rebels would accept his grace, he would welcome them 
again as friends and followers and freely forgive their outrage, 
but if they were obdurate and persisted in defying him, rebuke and 
dread correction should do their offices upon them. 

In the parley Prince Hal besought the king that if there must be 
battle to let the issue rest between himself and Harry Percy, and 
through Worcester he sent Hotspur a challenge to single combat, 
saying that while he had been a truant to chivalry and heard that 
Hotspur did so account him, he was content to save bloodshed on 
either side by trying fortune with him in single fight; and he spoke 
of Hotspur in so generous a manner, with such modest and manly 
courtesy, that Worcester withdrew greatly impressed, wondering 
at the change in one whom he had considered no better than a tavern 
brawler. 

Worcester, however, distrusted the king to such extent that he 
dared not acquaint Hotspur with the generous terms that had been 
offered — for he feared his nephew would accede to them, and in 
all probability Hotspur would have done so; but Worcester informed 
him that the king had called them rebels and traitors and would 
bid them battle presently; and the two armies then came together in 
unequal but bitter conflict. 



KING HENRY THE FOURTH, FIRST PART 383 

While the battle was in progress, Hotspur came upon the prince, 
and recognizing each other at an instant, the two prepared for mor- 
tal combat; and the prince said that Percy must no longer think to 
share with him in glory, for two stars could not keep their motion in 
one sphere, nor England brook the double reign of Harry Percy and 
the Prince of Wales. 

" Nor shall it," replied Hotspur, " for the hour is come to end the 
one of us." With these words they closed upon each other, until 
the prince struck Hotspur to the ground, mortally wounded, who 
barely had time to grieve the loss of his proud name at arms, which 
lay heavier at his heart than loss of life itself, when death silenced 
his lips forever, and the prince in sorrow covered up his face, saying 
that the earth that bore him dead, bore not alive so stout a gentle- 
man. 

When the noble Percy was slain, it was quickly seen that the heart 
of his cause was broken, for his soldiers could make no headway 
without him; and the rebels soon were routed, leaving the king 
to turn against the other forces that threatened him. 

The Earl of Worcester, who was taken captive, was condemned to 
death, for Henry had learned of the false message he delivered to 
the noble Hotspur. Henry bade Prince John proceed against Nor- 
thumberland and the Archbishop, while he with the Prince of Wales 
should overcome Glendower; for, said Henry, with such another 
check rebellion would lose all sway, and leave to him his own again. 



THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH 

WHEN the battle of Shrewsbury was ended, Hotspur 
slain and his forces put to flight, Rumour with many 
tongues invaded all the countryside and scattered false 
reports like rain among the villages, where it was told that young 
Prince Hal no longer lived and that the king himself had bowed his 
anointed head as low as death before the wrath of the great 
Douglas. 

With strange swiftness these false tidings were borne to the 
castle of Northumberland, where the old, sick earl awaited word 
of the battle and the fate of his son, Hotspur. A lord named 
Bardolph came before the earl with gracious news — as good as 
heart could wish, he said — for it was certain that the prince was 
slain by Hotspur, that the royal troops were routed and that fortune 
everywhere appeared to shine upon the swords of the insurgents. 
When the earl asked if Lord Bardolph had seen the field himself 
and if he came from Shrewsbury, Bardolph replied, no; but that a 
gentleman who witnessed the battle had told him all this news and 
vouched it to be true. 

Even while Lord Bardolph spoke, a harsher message came, cast- 
ing a cloud of doubt upon his words; for one of Northumberland's 
retainers heard that everywhere rebellion had ill luck and that young 
Harry Percy's spur was cold in death. And the earl knew not what 
to think or whom to believe, and his doubt ana! fear were terrible to 
behold. 

Soon there came to his castle a gentleman named Morton, pale 
and trembling as though in illness, and the earl cried that Morton's 
face was like the title-leaf of a most tragic volume; in the whiteness 
of his cheeks he knew that all was lost : for even did such a man, 
he said, so faint, so spiritless, draw Priam's curtain in the dead 

384 



KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 385 

of night to tell him Troy was burnt. As Priam found the fire ere 
the messenger his tongue, just so, said Northumberland, did he know 
of his son's death before it was spoken, for Morton's brow was 
terrible with dark events and Hotspur's fate was plainly written 
on it. But the earl, although he guessed what was as yet unsaid, 
shuddered to believe and asked with trembling hope if his divina- 
tion lied. He implored Morton to tell him that his fears were 
false, saying that they should be a sweet disgrace in the most happy 
tidings he desired to hear; but when Morton still looked sadly on 
him and hesitated in his speech the earl cried out for him to speak the 
worst that had befallen and speak it swiftly, for the tongue that bore 
ill news could not be blamed, and yet must sound forever after as a 
funeral bell that tolled for a departed friend. 

Morton said that the earl's spirit was most true, his fears most 
certain; to the question if he came from the place of battle he 
answered that he ran away from thence, where hateful death put on 
his ugliest mask to fright his party. He had seen with his own eyes 
the prince strike Hotspur to the earth, and Hotspur nevermore 
sprang up alive. His death, continued Morton, took all fire and 
heat from the best tempered courage of his troops, so that arrows 
flew not swifter to their aim than did the rebel soldiers, aiming at 
safety, fly from the field on hearing of their leader's fate. In 
short, the king had won the day, and had despatched a speedy force 
of soldiers against Northumberland himself. 

" There is physic in your news," replied Northumberland, " and 
in some measure it had made me well, for my limbs, weakened with 
grief, are now made strong with grief; and, as a wretch in fever who 
breaks from his keepers' arms, I cast aside my crutch to grasp a 
sword, and glove the hand that holds it with a scaly gauntlet, jointed 
with steel." The old man bade them bind his brows with iron, 
for lighter coverings would be too wanton for a head that princes 
aimed at, and he called forth all the evil hours that must come, 
to frown upon him now with all their spite, when he cared not 
what became of him. And the false strength of the earl changed 



386 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

suddenly into a violent outburst of grief for his lost son, so terrible 
that all about him feared for his reason; and his grief when it 
subsided was succeeded by weakness, until he could no longer be 
relied on by his companions who were struggling to make a final 
stand against the king. They prepared at once to meet Prince John 
who had been sent against them, strengthening themselves until they 
might proceed without the power of Northumberland, for the lack 
of this, they said, had been the cause of their defeat at Shrewsbury. 

It was well for the rebels that they did so, for Northumberland's 
wife and the Lady Percy, Hotspur's widow, persuaded the earl in 
his weakened state to withdraw before he, too, should lose his life. 
They reminded him that his own son had died in the lack of his sup- 
port and begged him to be no dearer of his honour now than 
hitherto. Honour, said Lady Percy, lay dead in the grave of her 
heart's dear Harry, whom the earl had left to defend a field where 
nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name did seem defensible. She 
so worked upon the fears of the old earl that he deserted his con- 
federates, sending word to them that while he prayed heartily for 
their good success and wished his person with them, he could not 
bring such powers as would do credit to his rank; hence, he said, 
he purposed to retire to Scotland and to ripen his fortunes there 
until he should be in a better state to aid them in their struggle. 

The Archbishop of York and his allies justly believed that North- 
umberland feared the result of their encounter with Prince John, and 
they were forced to give up hope in him who should have been the 
strongest power of their enterprise, whose wrongs were deeper than 
their own and sealed by a son's blood; and as they had already 
planned they now prepared to make headway by themselves, march- 
ing against the prince with an army of twenty-five thousand men that 
they had gathered. 

In the meanwhile Prince John was adding to his army every day; 
and an order was sent to Sir John Falstaff to join him with a com- 
pany of soldiers; for Falstaff, who had fought in his own fashion at 
the battle of Shrewsbury, pretended to have performed most valiant 



KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 387 

deeds there, bragging of his bravery until he had acquired the name 
of a great warrior in all the taverns of Eastcheap. And Falstaff 
set forth to join the prince, taking with him his favourite rascal, 
Bardolph, a rogue whose face flamed like a firebrand from drinking; 
and Bardolph was to recruit soldiers with Falstaff in the towns that 
they passed through, until they had impressed a sufficient number, as 
they had been commanded, to swell the ranks of John against the 
rebels. 

Falstaff travelled by most easy stages to the wars, stopping long 
in Gloucestershire to recruit his soldiers, where he tarried pleasantly 
at the house of one Justice Shallow who was known to him, and 
with whom he emptied countless bumpers of sack while his soldiers 
lacked their commander. For Falstaff said that he had taken but 
two shirts with him to the wars and did not intend to sweat extraor- 
dinarily either on his way thither or in battle when he arrived. If 
the armies came together on a hot day he swore by all that was holy 
he would brandish nothing but a bottle ; and for all his long stay in 
Gloucestershire, he impressed there no more than three ragged, for- 
lorn knaves — the rest having succeeded in bribing him to pass 
them by. 

Prince John and Lord Westmoreland, in the meanwhile, had con- 
ceived a plan of treachery to overcome their enemies with a show 
of peace and apparent fairness. They sent to the Archbishop of 
York, who was the leader of the rebels, a flag of truce requesting 
a parley, and the Archbishop with his several lords met the prince at 
an equal distance between the two armies. 

The prince spoke to them with apparent friendliness and with 
great seeming desire to effect peace with no further bloodshed. 
When the rebel leaders gave to him a list of all their grievances, he 
admitted that these were just and promised that he would redress 
them all. And when the rebels in great joy said that now a battle 
was no longer necessary, John bade them go and disperse their army 
as he would likewise do; then they should drink together and em- 
brace as friends that had been reconciled. 



388 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

It was to be observed, however, that while the rebel soldiers 
hastened away with shouts of rejoicing, the prince's army remained 
standing in battle order; and no sooner were the rebels scattered, 
than John bade his captains strike up their drums and pursue them, 
commanding also that the Archbishop and all his lords be brought to 
instant execution. For, said John, while he would keep his promise 
with most Christian care, it contained no word of safety either to 
the Archbishop or any of the rebel leaders, who must all look to the 
headsman for their punishment as traitors to the king. In this way 
at a single blow the country came again beneath the rule of Henry, 
and the rising to place Mortimer upon the throne of England was 
suppressed forever. 

King Henry, however, had met with harder fortune in Wales, 
where the enemy retired into the impassable mountains of their 
country, leaving the royal army to contend with sickness and famine. 
And no sooner did the king return to his own court, than a grievous 
illness came upon him. 

While the king lay ill, news of Prince John's success was brought 
to him, and in his weakness word of this good fortune was more than 
he could bear; and while he had been reviving to all appearance, 
now a sudden change came over him, and it was plain to see that 
he lay dying. 

In King Henry's last hours, an unfortunate happening made him 
believe that his son Harry, who had distinguished himself so bravely 
on the field of battle, had returned to his former evil conduct; for 
while the royal crown lay on the pillow of the dying king, he closed 
his eyes in a still slumber, and Prince Harry, who was alone with him 
at the time, believed this sleep to be his father's death. Looking on 
the crown that was, he said, a golden care, the root of his father's ill- 
ness and the disturber of his peace, the prince removed it from the 
pillow where it lay, and placed it on his brows, as though to contend 
with it. For, he said, while his due to his father was tears and 
heavy sorrows of the blood, his father's due to him was that same 
imperial crown, which he should henceforth guard with a most rev- 



KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 389 

erent care, and in deep sorrow he quitted the room, taking the crown 
with him. 

But the king was not yet dead as the prince believed, and he now 
awoke and called his lords about him, missing his crown; and he de- 
manded who had taken it away. His lords replied that they knew 
not, but that Prince Harry had recently been with him, and the king 
believed that Harry had taken the crown with unseemly haste from 
a sense of undue vanity, begrudging his own father half an hour 
more of life. He summoned the prince before him and dismissed 
the others; and he administered to the prince a deep rebuke, pitiful 
to hear in his great weakness. For he bade the prince begone and 
dig his father's grave himself, and bid the merry bells ring to his ear 
that he was crowned, not that his father died. Forgetting the 
changed habits of his son and his great deeds at Shrewsbury, the 
king cried out for his poor country, for when the fifth Harry 
should come to power, apes of idleness, he said, should flock to 
court from every region, driving his wise counsellors away, break- 
ing his wise decrees, plucking the muzzle of restraint from the 
curbed license of his time, until all England should again become 
a wilderness, peopled with its old inhabitants, the wolves. And he 
bade the prince to tarry but a little, for his cloud of dignity would 
quickly drop ; and in a few hours more, the prince would own by 
right the crown that he had stolen. 

At this the prince with tears begged his father to desist and told 
him in what spirit he had taken the crown from his pillow. He 
said that if it infected his blood with joy, or if he welcomed it with 
any spirit of vanity, he wished that it might be kept from him for- 
ever, and that he should become as the poorest vassal that knelt in 
awe and terror before it. With loving words the prince once more 
convinced his father of his repentance and sincerity of purpose, until 
the king rejoiced again and said that God had put it in Prince 
Harry's heart to take the crown, to plead so wisely in excuse of it. 

With his last breath the king gave his son counsel how to conduct 
his realm and meet the enemies that surrounded him, who must be 



39Q TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

engrossed with foreign wars to keep them from plotting further mis- 
chief in their own country; and the king died in the assured be- 
lief that his son would carry on his own wise measures and become 
a just and mighty ruler of whom England could be proud. 

When King Henry the Fourth lay dead and Prince Harry had 
assumed the royal powers, there was doubt and forboding among 
his brothers and the gentlemen of his court as to how he would 
conduct himself; and Harry beheld many look askance upon him 
and regard him with a certain fear. First of those that feared 
him was the Lord Chief Justice of England, who had caused him 
once to be arrested and thrown into prison for breaking some de- 
cree enacted by his father. But Harry bade the justice to continue 
to wield his power with the same bold and impartial spirit that he 
had formerly shown against himself; and he bade his brothers like- 
wise to fear no longer, for his former faults, he said, were buried 
in the grave of his dead father. Instead of summoning to court 
his old tavern associates and low companions, as many had feared 
that he would do, King Henry surrounded himself with grave and 
wise counsellors, preparing with all his heart to enter in the cares and 
duties of his kingdom. 

Sir John Falstaff, however, who had returned from the wars 
(where he had arrived too late to be of any assistance) had no 
idea of the change that had befallen his companion, the former 
prince, who now was king. He believed the death of King Henry 
to be an earnest of reward and great distinction for himself now 
that Harry had attained his royal power. No sooner, therefore, did 
Falstaff hear the welcome news of Henry's death, than he hastened 
rejoicing to bear his great bulk to London, inviting with him all his 
old friends and associates, to whom he promised offices unheard 
of, honour and vast wealth, for now, said Falstaff, he should be the 
king's nearest and dearest adviser, great in the estimation of all 
that regarded him. And Falstaff placed himself where he could 
greet the new king after his coronation, intending to call out to him 
from the streets as he went by. 



KING HENRY THE FOURTH, SECOND PART 391 

" Stand here by me," said Falstaff to the rogues that accompanied 
him, " I will compel the king to do you grace and honour. I will 
leer on him as he comes by, and do but mark the countenance that 
he will give me." 

And when the new king was returning from his coronation sur- 
rounded by grave noblemen, soldiers and attendants, Falstaff called 
out to him loudly, nicknaming him Hal, his own royal Hal, his 
sweet boy and his Jove; and when the chief justice approached him 
demanding silence, asking if he were mad to address his sovereign 
in such a manner, Falstaff continued to address the king, calling out 
to know if Henry were not glad to see him, and invoking blessings 
upon him. 

Then King Henry said to Falstaff that he knew him not, although 
in earlier days he often had dreamed of such a man, so monstrous, 
so old and so profane. Being awake, he said, he did despise his 
dream; and he told Falstaff never to presume to think that he was 
now his former self. And he bade Falstaff think upon his sins for 
that the grave yawned thrice as wide for him as for other men, 
commanding him to leave gormandizing, to make less his body and 
increase his grace. He banished Falstaff on pain of death not to 
come near his royal person by ten mile; but he gave his old com- 
panion a liberal sum of money for his support, so that lack of means 
might not enforce him to do evil. And thus King Henry publicly 
renounced his former ways and companions, preparing to become 
a great and successful ruler over England. 



THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH 

WHEN King Henry the Fourth lay dying, he bade his son 
to occupy the English noblemen with foreign wars and 
in this way to restrain them from plotting against the 
crown in further rebellion ; the young king bore in mind his father's 
words and bethought him of his mighty ancestor, King Edward 
the Third, who was descended from the royalty of France and 
invaded France for the chief purpose of enforcing his demand upon 
the throne. Henry likewise cast his eye over the fair and fertile 
provinces of France, considering how with justice he could gain 
dominion there; he remembered the great victories of Edward, and 
in Edward's name made claim to certain French dukedoms and 
even thought to take the crown of France itself. 

Henry was encouraged to seek this crown by the priests and 
noblemen of England, who told him that his claim to it was right 
and just. The Archbishop of Canterbury said that there was no 
bar to Henry's accession except the law of Salique land which 
read that only those of male descent should inherit royal powers. 
King Henry's right, said the Archbishop, came from the line of 
women and by the Salic law was void of justice. But Salique 
land, continued he, lay not in France but in Germany, between the 
rivers Sala and Elbe, which made it plain that the law had been 
devised for a people other than the French, and furthermore, the 
French had often disregarded it in choosing their own rulers. 
The Archbishop, therefore, bade his dread lord, as he called 
King Henry, to unwind his bloody flag in the thoughts of his great 
ancestors, — of the Black Prince, who foraged in the blood of 
French nobility, and of the great King Edward who stood on a 
hill nearby and smiled to behold his lion's whelp defeat the whole 
proud power of France without his father's aid. Other priests 

392 



KING HENRY THE FIFTH 393 

and noblemen likewise besought King Henry to awaken remem- 
brance of those valiant dead, whose blood and courage ran in his 
own veins; and the king replied to them at last that he would 
rule in France and be its lord or lay his bones in an unworthy 
urn, for History, he said, either should speak freely of his deeds or 
pass him by in silence. Henry^.then discussed with his counsellors 
the best defenses for his country in his absence, lest the furious 
Scots should pour over the unguarded borderland to ravage 
England as they had attempted in the reign of the great Edward, 
— for Henry was determined now to marshal an invading army 
and set sail to conquer France. 

The resolution of King Henry to make war on France was 
quickened by an act of the French prince who was called the 
Dauphin, who believed that the English king retained the follies 
of his early youth; that he was still surrounded with dissolute 
companions, such as Falstaff; and that he was not to be feared 
or even treated with due courtesy. For the Dauphin returned word 
to Henry's claim, that Henry savoured far too greatly of his youth 
to demand dukedoms or provinces — which were not easily to 
be won in France, he said; and he sent to Henry (as more fitting 
for his light and idle spirit than the dukedoms he required) a 
present of tennis-balls — a bitter mock at Henry that a prince more 
thoughtful than the Dauphin would have forborne. For Henry 
replied in a terrible manner to the ambassadors that conveyed this 
insult, bidding them return and tell their master that when the 
English rackets were matched to those balls of France a set of 
tennis should be played that would, ere ended, strike the Dauphin's 
crown into the hazard: for the tennis-balls, said Henry, should 
be turned to gun-stones and the Dauphin's soul should be sore 
charged for the wasteful vengeance that should fly with them. 
The Dauphin's mock, continued Henry, should savour of but shallow 
wit when thousands more should weep than ever laughed with him 
that made it, for his merry message should mock many a thousand 
widows out of their dear husbands; mock mothers from their 



394 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

sons, mock castles down. And Henry bade his noblemen to hasten 
his expedition with all speed, for now there lay no thought in him 
save thoughts of France, and he was eager now to bring the Dauphin 
to a speedy answer of his insolence. 

Through England, then, there ran the hum and stir of busy 
preparation. At a thousand forges, armourers laboured night and 
day to equip the troops that must set forward; ships were built 
and fitted with sails and rigging; and a great fleet soon awaited 
Henry and his forces at Southampton, while from all parts of the 
country men and boys flocked thither to enlist under his banner. 

But the rebellion that Henry feared among the turbulent noble- 
men that surrounded him was even then arising, and the French 
had been able to bribe three English lords to slay the king before 
he should set foot on shipboard. These noblemen were doubly 
dangerous because King Henry numbered them among his dearest 
supporters — one of them in particular knew all Henry's plans and 
all his counsels, and had ever been in close and personal attendance 
on him. 

Henry, however, was aware of all the purposes of these false 
lords. While he allowed them to attend him as usual, to fawn on 
him and flatter him, and while he feigned to believe in every word 
they spoke, he intended to make a fitting example of them at the 
time of his embarkment. So, when the day approached that Henry 
must set sail, he called the three conspirators before him and gave 
them what they thought to be their French commissions, but what 
really were their death warrants; and he bade them all three to 
read, remarking that he knew their worthiness. When they did 
so, and beheld their plot to be as palpable as day, they begged for 
mercy from the king; but strangely enough, they had but lately 
counselled him to put to death a poor wretch who had railed against 
his person when in drink. So Henry told them that for very 
shame they must not dare to talk of mercy, which their own 
advice suppressed and killed within him. He bade his other noble- 
men to look upon the inhuman monsters who for a few light crowns 



•V 



KING HENRY THE FIFTH 395 

would give their sovereign to death and their country to desolation. 
And he called that lord who knew his secrets and who had even 
been his bedfellow, so close was their former friendship, a cruel, 
savage and inhuman beast, wondering that foreign hire could ex- 
tract from him one spark of evil to annoy his little finger. For 
treason and murder, said Henry, ever kept company together like 
two yoke-devils, but this lord had now brought in amazement by 
his act to wait upon the two; and his revolt was like a second fall of 
man, leaving a blot to mark all true and honourable souls with some 
suspicion. 

Henry believed that the discovery of so fearful a plot at such 
a time was a good omen for the success of his expedition into 
France. His fleet set sail and soon arrived before the town of 
Harfleur, which Henry prepared to lay siege to, while he sent to 
the French king, ambassadors, who were to acquaint him with the 
English purposes and bid him resign his crown before his country 
should be wasted in bloody war. 

When Henry sailed for France, a sad fate befell his former 
companion, Sir John Falstaff, who was grieved to the heart that he 
could not accompany the king, and who chafed under the banish- 
ment from the royal presence that Henry had laid upon him. Fal- 
staff fell ill of a burning fever and took to his bed in strange 
disorder of mind. And there he died, and the hostess of the 
tavern who was with him at his end, said she knew there could 
be only one outcome when she beheld Sir John so changed from his 
[former self: for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and he babbled 
of green fields. " How now, Sir John," the hostess had said to 
him, "what, man, be of good cheer!" But with that, he had 
cried out the name of God three or four times; and when the 
hostess, to comfort him, bade him to think not thus dismally — 
there was no need, she hoped, for him to trouble himself with 
thoughts of God as yet — he desired her to lay more clothes at 
his feet which were as cold as any stone; and then he died, the hostess 
said, like any innocent child, just between twelve and one at the 



396 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

turning of the tide; making a finer end than he had lived, and 
going to his death in peace, like any Christian. 

The French, in the meanwhile, were made aware of Henry's 
coming, and their king, whose name was Louis, bade his knights 
to prepare with all speed to meet the English. Henry, the French 
king said, was strong and came of that bloody strain that had 
so shamed the French at Cregy, where the black name of Edward 
the Black Prince had worked havoc among their proudest noble- 
men. Louis ordered his son, the Dauphin, and many others, to 
strengthen his towns of war, to call together soldiers and prepare 
in every way for the bitter struggle that shortly would be on foot; 
and Louis blamed the Dauphin for saying that the English were 
idly kinged, when Henry's warlike preparations spoke so clearly to 
the contrary. 

Even at that moment, the ambassadors from Henry came into 
Louis' presence, demanding the crown and calling all the terrors 
of the coming war upon the head of the French king should he re- 
fuse. To the Dauphin, Henry sent scorn and contempt, saying 
that he was now come to force requital from him, and that unless 
the king, his father, should sweeten his bitter mock by full consent 
to his demands, he would call the Dauphin to so hot answer that the 
caves of France should all complain of his former jest in echo of 
the English cannon. 

The English then invested the town of Harfleur with a swift and 
bloody siege until the citizens were compelled to parley with them; 
and Henry bade them unbar their gates or he would leave their 
town in ashes and allow his men to range with conscience wide 
as hell among them, putting to the sword their infants and old 
men, and laying rude enforcing hands upon their wives and fresh- 
fair virgins. And when the town surrendered, which it did 
promptly, Henry left a portion of his force as garrison, and marched 
with the rest toward Calais, where he purposed to go into winter 
quarters. 

The English at this time were in sore distress, for sickness had 



KING HENRY THE FIFTH 397 

made havoc in their ranks and what with their weakened numbers 
and the men that had been left behind in Harfleur, the French 
possessed five soldiers for every one of them. They were, moreover, 
starved and worn out with toil, appearing gaunt and famished like 
an army of spectres — heart-sick and utterly dispirited. And in 
this plight they came upon the whole French army that was em- 
battled against them near a castle called Agincourt. 

The French observed the weak condition of their enemies, and 
sent to Henry a herald, insolently demanding that he consider his 
ransom or prepare to die with all his followers; but Henry bade the 
herald return and say that the English although lessened in numbers 
and weakened by starvation and disease would not avoid a battle; 
and if the French opposed their line of march, they would come 
on though France and such another neighbour stood in their way. 

Henry then drew his forces forward until they were not fifteen 
hundred paces from the French lines. And when night fell, his 
men could hear the voices of their foes and see their figures, dark 
in the firelight; while the hammers of the armourers closing up 
rivets, the neighing of horses and the thousand sounds of dreadful 
preparation for battle could be heard in either camp. 

That night in the French tents there was drinking and merriment, 
and the French lords even played at dice for the prisoners they 
intended to take upon the morrow; but the English, who seemed 
like so many ghosts, spent their night in prayer and watchfulness. 
No sound came from their camp save sounds of martial prepara- 
tion, and King Henry walked from tent to tent with cheerful de- 
meanour and brave words, putting heart into his followers and giv- 
ing no sign by word or look, that he realized his great danger. To 
a nobleman who wished that all the valiant gentlemen who were 
left in England could be with the king in his hour of need, Henry 
replied that he would have no other men than those that were with 
him. If they were to die, they were sufficient for England to lose, 
and if to live, so much the more honour for each one of them. 
Rather, said Henry, let it be proclaimed throughout his army that 



398 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

any man who feared the battle should be given free leave to depart 
and money for his passage home be put into his purse, for, Henry 
said, he would not die in that man's company. 

In the morning King Henry saw to it that the English were the 
first to draw up their forces in battle order, and the French upon 
awakening beheld their enemies prepared to meet them — a strange 
array, for the English were so lean and worn that they appeared 
like shadows, their clothes in rags, their armour darkened with rust; 
and they were mounted on dull eyed steeds with drooping heads and 
gum down-dropping from their lips, scarce strong enough to bear 
their riders' weight, while ravens flew above the sorry host and almost 
perched upon their standards. And the French gave way to merri- 
ment at the appearance of their foes, believing that in the weakened 
veins of the English, blood ran so thin as scarce to give each naked 
curtle-axe a stain, and that the French soldiers would be forced to 
sheathe their swords for lack of sport, while the battle, if battle it 
could be called, might just as well be left to their lackeys and to the 
peasants that swarmed about their ranks. 

The despised English, however, were destined completely to over- 
throw their enemies in that battle, for the French came on them 
in great numbers, but with such assurance that they planned no 
order; and the very numbers of the French enabled the English 
to throw them into confusion, driving them to fly in a headlong 
mass where they were easily slain by thousands. The success of 
the English seemed little short of miraculous, and the proudest 
noblemen of France fell down in death before their swords or died 
beneath the arrows of the English archers, who fought that day 
bare-breasted and bare-armed, the better to draw their bows against 
their enemies. At last the same herald who had come to Henry 
demanding ransom returned with a message far different: for he 
begged permission that the French might bury their dead and sepa- 
rate their slaughtered noblemen and peasants who lay side by side 
about the field in heaped confusion. And wounded horses scream- 
ing with pain lay fetlock deep in gore and mire among the bodies 



KING HENRY THE FIFTH 399 

of the French, dealing the wounded mortal blows with their armed 
hoofs, and killing the dead twice over with their heels. 

The French although amazed and terrified at the triumph of 
Henry's army, did not give in to him until further conflict and a 
bitter war had raged over all their country; but at last they were 
compelled to ask for peace, and Henry with his noblemen went to 
the French court to hear himself acknowledged victor and to receive 
complete submission from the king whom he had conquered. 

First of Henry's conditions was that the king should give to him 
in marriage the French princess, Katharine, and this demand with 
all the others was acceded to; but Henry, who knew not the language 
of the French, had but a sorry time of it with his new bride, for 
wooing her in her own speech, he said, was harder than the con- 
quering of her kingdom. Henry then returned from the French 
wars to England where rejoicing was great in his double conquest 
of a kingdom and a bride. But the conquest of France was doubt- 
ful after all, for the new queen of England was able to rule there 
with the complete possession that a true wife should ever have over 
her husband, — even though that husband be as great a warrior as 
Henry the Fifth of England. 



THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH 

THE crown that had been worn so nobly by Henry the 
Fifth was given on the death of this great king to his 
infant son, also named Henry, who, being a child in cradle, 
could not take upon himself his royal powers. Until the day that 
he should become of fitting age to bear himself as king, that the 
bright crown of Henry the Fifth should not overweigh the brows 
of a mere infant, the Duke of Gloucester was appointed Lord Pro- 
tector to rule the English people in the name of Henry. 

But how much grief was shown for the departed king, at whose 
sudden and untimely death the heavens, it was said, should have 
been hung all with black, day turned to night, and comets — those 
fearful omens of some future change — burned in the sky ! For 
now the noblemen at court were quarreling with turbulence to win 
such power as they never would have dared to seek in Henry's 
reign. There was a quarrel on foot between the Duke of Glouces- 
ter, who was Lord Protector over England, and a proud churchman 
the Bishop of Winchester, their retainers even coming to blows 
within the streets of London, while other noblemen banded in 
warring factions in support of them, until the people feared that 
civil conflict would work the ruin of their country. 

They fearepl still more as young Henry grew to be a man, for 
he had none of the qualities that were his father's, caring not, to 
all appearance for the duties of a king. In all his deeds Henry 
showed that he was fitter to be a herdsman tending his flocks, or 
a monk sequestered in a cell than to hold a sceptre or do credit 
to the glories of his father's crown. Henry was forever closeted 
with books, although he learned but little from them, and forever 
saying prayers that seemed to bring him little grace or manliness. 

400 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART. 401 

So far from seeking any of his royal powers as he grew to man- 
hood, the young king seemed content to leave them to the Duke of 
Gloucester, and the noblemen and people of the realm bethought 
them of a proverb that had been a byword once in all of England: 
that Henry the Fifth, who was born at Monmouth, should win 
all, but the Henry born at Windsor should lose what had been won 
— for Windsor was the birthplace of the present king. 

It appeared that this dark proverb would fall true even before 
the late King Henry had been laid within his tomb, for at the time 
of his funeral, messengers came from France with word of sore 
disaster there — the English had been defeated by the same French 
lords that were used to fly before them, towns had been recaptured 
and in place of Henry, Charles the Dauphin had been proclaimed 
the rightful king of France. 

The noblemen who accompanied the body of the king, bade the 
messengers to speak their news with softness, or such bitter tidings 
would be heard by their dead lord within his coffin and cause him 
to burst its lead and rise, although lifeless, to recapture the fair 
towns that he had won so recently. Even while they spoke, more 
news arrived that might indeed have awakened the dead king, for 
England's bravest general, Lord Talbot, who the king had dearly 
loved, was overthrown and captured by the French, and unless a 
speedy aid were sent, the remainder of the English troops must 
likewise fall before their enemies or perish for lack of food. 

In France there was also another power that had risen against 
the English, — for a maiden of humble birth, who possessed a 
strength that seemed to issue from no human source, opposed them. 
This maiden was called Joan of Arc, and although a shepherd's 
daughter, accustomed to no ruder task than tending her father's 
sheep, Joan of Arc believed that by her marvellous aid the French 
could overthrow their enemies and drive the English from the towns 
and fortresses still held by them. Joan of Arc had visions, caused, 
as the French believed, by angels, whereby she would behold herself 
in armour, leading the French to victory against the English. 



4 o2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Through her alone this maid believed that the town of Orleans, 
then besieged by all the English with their utmost strength could 
be delivered into safety; and Joan of Arc went, therefore, to Prince 
Charles and told him that in her there lay the power to deliver 
Orleans and save his kingdom. 

Charles, before her coming, had heard much about the miracles 
performed and the visions said to have been beheld by this wonderful 
maiden, and he determined to make test without her knowledge if 
these things were true and if Joan of Arc could be deceived by 
mortal means. With purpose so to deceive her, he caused one of 
his own noblemen to attire himself as though he were the prince 
and take his place upon the royal seat, while Charles in humbler 
garments concealed himself amid a group of courtiers who waited 
on this duke and did pretended homage unto him. The duke, 
whose name was Reignier, addressed Joan as though he were the 
rightful lord of France, demanding if it were indeed true that she 
could perform the marvels accredited to her. And although in 
all her life Joan of Arc had never beheld the prince or Reignier, she 
called the duke by name and bade him to think not that he could 
thus beguile her, for she knew that he was not the dauphin as he 
pretended. Then, to the wonder of all that beheld her, she went 
straight to Charles in his disguise and knelt before him, offering 
with all humility her aid to save his country. 

When Charles beheld this, he was stricken with amazement as 
were all the nobles that surrounded him — far more, when Joan 
offered, as a further proof of her divine assurance, to do combat 
with him; and when the prince was armed, Joan, although a maiden, 
overcame him, until Charles was glad to cry enough, saying that she 
was an Amazon and that the sword of Deborah lay in her hand. 
Charles conferred upon Joan of Arc a high position in his army, 
and she became the idol of his men at arms, who followed her with 
complete faith and confidence into the utmost dangers. So great 
was her power over the rough minds and savage hearts of the 
French soldiers, that they worshipped her as a saint who had come 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART 403 

to their deliverance, and they fought beneath her with a courage no 
less irresistible than marvellous to behold. 

Great wonder was evinced among the English at this beholding a 
maiden do battle with them; but they believed Joan of Arc to be 
a hateful witch surrounded with infernal agencies, that she com- 
manded the spirits of the under world, and that her strength, at- 
tained by sinister means of magic and the powers of darkness, was 
no other than the hateful strength of Hell. The English became 
afraid, believing that no earthly power could prevent the French 
from victory and their own fear, no less than the confidence of their 
enemies, became the cause of their defeat, until it seemed that 
nothing could withhold the French from entering the town of 
Orleans as Joan of Arc had prophesied. 

Although Lord Talbot had by this time gained his liberty from 
the French he was unable to prevail against the maiden that opposed 
him. Time after time his men were forced to fly before her and at 
last Orleans was indeed rescued, while the English, wounded, scat- 
tered and dismayed wondered at the ease with which they had been 
vanquished by the enemies they were accustomed to despise. 

There was, then, severe fighting around the walls of Orleans, and 
Talbot with his followers attacked the city in the dead of night, 
scaling the walls by means of ladders, so that the French were forced 
to fly for their lives and even leap from off the ramparts to escape 
the revengeful swords of the English soldiers. But Joan of Arc 
with brave words rallied the French troops and reawakened in them 
the courage that her presence always commanded. Disguised as 
country people who came to market, Joan, with a few followers 
entered then the town of Rouen and made a secret signal to the 
French, informing them where to lead their forces by thrusting 
from the battlements a lighted torch to guide them. The French 
then captured Rouen, but on being unable to hold it from the 
English, they retired with undaunted courage for Joan imbued them 
with all the wonder of her presence by going among them to rally 
them, bidding them have no despair for all would yet go well. 



4 o 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

This maiden determined then to win if possible the Duke of 
Burgundy from his alliance against France, for the duke was fight- 
ing side by side with Talbot, and had shown himself to be a vigor- 
ous supporter of the English cause. When the duke was marching 
forth from Rouen, which was now so strongly garrisoned that he 
could use his forces elsewhere, Joan caused Charles to seek a 
parley with him, and she spoke to Burgundy in such a manner that 
he seemed bewitched, unable any longer to continue in his purpose. 
For Joan bade him look upon his country and behold the cities 
and the towns defaced by the cruel, wasting ruin of the foe with 
whom he had allied himself. She spoke of patriotism, and the 
most unnatural wounds that Burgundy had given to the land he 
should hold dearest; and in her words there lay, to all appearance, 
a secret power, for the duke, although a former and inflexible enemy 
to Joan herself, whom he had accused of witchcraft and foul dealing 
with evil spirits, on hearing her speak thus, placed his sword and 
army at the service of Prince Charles, swearing that he would 
have no more to do with the English who he saw were palpably 
his enemies. And Burgundy seemed bound as though by a spell 
to repent his former actions, and render in requital faithful service 
to the French; and by the winning of this duke, Joan of Arc dealt 
unto the English a blow as shrewd as any they had yet received. 

Joan of Arc was not the only cause of England's declining for- 
tunes, for the quarrels between the English nobles were so bitter 
that the English could no longer fight in harmony against a common 
foe, and they were fainer to turn their weapons on each other 
than to draw them side by side to keep the land they once had con- 
quered. 

Chief of these warring nobles was Richard, the Duke of York, 
whose uncle was no other than the Mortimer who sought the throne 
in the time of Henry the Fourth, aided by the noble Hotspur, who 
had lost his life at Shrewsbury. Richard had quarreled fiercely 
with the Duke of Somerset and the court of Henry was divided 
into parties favouring the one or the other of these noblemen. It 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART 405 

had come to pass that Richard, in a former meeting with the Duke 
of Somerset, had plucked in anger a white rose, bidding his fol- 
lowers do likewise as a token of their friendship, while Somerset 
with his friends had chosen roses all of red to be the sign of their 
party; and from this custom came the name of civil wars that were 
to shake all England with their fury. These wars of the roses re- 
sulted from Richard's seeking to win the English crown, as his 
uncle Mortimer had done before him, and this, although at first 
it was concealed, was the real issue of his quarrel with the Duke of 
Somerset. 

The enmity of these two noblemen was the undoing of the brave 
lord, Talbot, who, having gone to besiege the town of Bordeaux, 
was surrounded there by a great force of Frenchmen led by Joan 
of Arc and the French prince, Charles. The Duke of Somerset and 
Richard of York each refused to send any aid to Talbot, quarrel- 
ing in most unseemly manner as to which one of them must spare 
the troops to save his life; and while these noblemen delayed so 
basely, their opportunity was lost and shame of their unworthy action 
firmly and forever sealed upon their names. For the French closed 
upon Talbot in a conflict that must surely be fatal to the forces 
that he led, and most certain death of all to their commander — 
for Talbot by his bravery and vengeful spirit toward his enemies 
had caused the French to hate him above all other men, and ten 
thousand soldiers had taken oath to turn their weapons in the com- 
ing encounter on no other than himself. 

Talbot had an only son — a youth that had but lately joined 
his father's army to be taught the art of war; and the presence of 
this lad, who was his father's dearest hope, the sole support of his 
increasing age and the only issue of his blood to give the honourable 
name of Talbot to futurity, caused far more sorrow to Talbot than 
the thought of his own approaching death. Accordingly, he begged 
his son to fly from the fatal place and he spoke to the lad of the 
great name of Talbot that must perish, did he remain. He com- 
manded him as a father to take flight, were it only to revenge his 



4 o6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

father's death; but the lad refused to hear him, saying that to 
fly at such a time would only prove that he was no son of the great 
soldier who begot him. And Talbot and his son prepared to die 
together, and to sell their lives as dearly as possible to the French, 
who now were coming to destroy them. 

In the terrible battle that followed, young Talbot was soon slain 
and his father, mortally wounded, was forced to look upon the 
body of his son borne from the combat by his own soldiers, who 
laid it before him. Talbot cried out to his son to speak, and he 
bade the soldiers mark how the lad appeared to smile as though 
death itself were a thing of scorn, coming as it did from the French 
he so despised. He bade his followers to place the body of his son 
within his arms, and embracing it Talbot himself perished, while the 
French in triumph scattered the last of his supporters and rejoiced to 
behold their most bitter enemy lifeless before them. 

The French, however, were not destined to win what Talbot's 
overthrow seemed to promise them, for Joan of Arc, whose powers 
now appeared to fail her, was captured by her enemies and put to a 
cruel death by fire, being burned at the stake by the English, who 
were convinced that evil spirits were her ministers and that the 
French in taking her as their leader had sold themselves forever to 
the powers of the under world. In the death of this maiden the 
French were more than requited for the overthrow of Talbot, for 
Joan of Arc had ever been the source of all their power; in her 
words and courage had appeared wonders that seemed not of earth, 
and in her death a grievous injury was worked upon the land that 
she had saved. 

Both countries now were spent and weary from the wars that 
had continued for many years, and a peace was soon concluded 
between them. And while the English in this peace apparently were 
not the losers, their statesmen and the wiser nobles knew too well that 
they could never hope to regain their former ascendancy in France. 

While the wars had been in progress, King Henry the Sixth had 
grown of a marriageable age and his nobles were of many minds 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, FIRST PART 407 

in regard to how their sovereign should choose his queen. It was 
finally proposed, however, that he should wed the daughter of the 
Earl of Armagnac which would seal the peace that had just been con- 
cluded. 

But an English nobleman, the Earl of Suffolk had conceived a 
plan whereby he could gain much control over the king and become 
a power in the state, for Suffolk purposed to dominate King Henry 
by means of the bride that Henry was to marry. Suffolk loved a 
lady named Margaret, daughter to the French duke, Reignier; and 
being unable to wed Margaret himself, although he perceived she 
would return his affection, he intended, were it possible, to make 
Margaret queen of England, knowing well that Margaret was as 
resolute of spirit as King Henry was infirm and hesitating in dis- 
position, that she would soon have great control over her husband 
and through this means and the love that she should bear for 
Suffolk, he could win a vast control over all England. 

In pursuance of this artful plot the Earl of Suffolk bore to Henry 
the most extravagant tales of Margaret's beauty and perfection; 
and coupled with his praise strong reasons of state necessity for 
Henry to marry her. Henry was enkindled by the words of 
Suffolk to seek the lady Margaret as his queen; and although 
Margaret should bring with her no bridal portion — a thing un- 
heard of in the marriage of an English king, Henry prepared to 
make her queen of England. He left France for his own country 
where Margaret was soon to join him. And Henry had not only 
effected little in his foreign wars, but was returning to a struggle 
infinitely nearer to the welfare of his kingdom, where in his uncer- 
tain rule it was most probable that an ill fate would overtake his 
country and himself. 



THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH 

THE loss of the great realm of France — for lost it was in 
spite of the apparent English rule that still continued there 
— caused grief and anger among the noblemen of Henry's 
court. But they were no less incensed by the unwise marriage of 
their king, for Margaret, the daughter to Duke Reignier, was not, 
they maintained, a match for England's greatness either in birth 
or property, bringing neither the dowry expected of a royal princess, 
nor the high position due the king who was to honour her by 
marriage. And the French, aware of Henry's weakness of spirit, 
had imposed upon this marriage conditions that showed too plainly 
the scorn with which they regarded the English king. They re- 
quired that as price for this fair maiden, the lands of Maine and 
Anjou be given to Duke Reignier her father; and that the expense of 
bringing Margaret to English shores be laid upon King Henry, 
bidding him, as though by a direct command, to buy the bride for 
whose sake he was to forfeit both his pride as king and the benefits 
due England by his marriage. 

King Henry, however, seemed not aware of the great anger his 
act had caused, or of the contempt evinced among his courtiers for 
the dowerless maiden he had chosen to become his queen. The 
lands he had renounced, he deemed but slight in value when com- 
pared to the great worth and peerless beauty of Queen Margaret, 
and as for the English reverses in their wars with France, they were, 
he said, God's will and not to be avoided. 

In the presence of the court, King Henry commanded the Duke 
of Gloucester, who was still Lord Protector over England, to pro- 
claim the marriage contract; and Gloucester read how it had been 
agreed that Henry was to wed the lady Margaret. But when the 
duke came to the shameful words about the provinces where the 

408 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 409 

dead king, Henry the Fifth, had toiled for weary years with armour 
on his back — those lands now lightly lost for purchase of a bride 
— he could read no more, but let the document fall from his hand. 
And Cardinal Beaufort who, when Bishop of Winchester had been 
a bitter enemy of Gloucester, and even now restrained his hatred 
only to work future injury upon him, made it appear that Glouces- 
ter's sorrow was the result of secret ambition and designs upon the 
crown. For the Cardinal was jealous of the Lord Protector's posi- 
tion in the government, and determined to ruin him by any means 
within his power, seeking no less than Gloucester's death. 

The Duke of Suffolk, who had artfully arranged the marriage of 
Henry with Margaret, was likewise angered against Gloucester, 
while the queen herself beheld in him the strongest opposer to her 
designs upon her weak husband. And these enemies were forever 
plotting harm against the Lord Protector, seeking both by treachery 
or open malice to bring about his downfall. 

The Duke of Gloucester had a wife named Eleanor who was a 
woman of proud and rebellious spirit, being unable to bear with 
a good grace the thought that any lady in the land, even the queen 
should be superior to herself. Eleanor bore herself at court as 
though she were indeed the queen of England, surrounded herself 
with many attendants and followers, wore costly dresses and rich 
jewels and treated all that she encountered with the utmost pride 
and arrogance. 

Eleanor was forever urging her husband to seek for greater power 
in the state, and would drop a thousand hints how easy it would be 
for him to take the crown, telling him once that she had dreamed 
that Henry and the hated Margaret kneeled to her in the cathedral, 
presenting her with a bright diadem which they placed upon her 
head. She bade her lord stretch forth his hand to take the crown 
whose glory was so easily to be attained, and then, said she, together 
they would lift their heads so high as not to glance again upon 
the humble earth, or give a thought to the more lowly station whence 
they had arisen to such honour. 



410 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

Gloucester, who was loyal to King Henry, disliked exceedingly to 
hear Eleanor speak in such a manner. He had at heart none of the 
ambition of his wife, nor any desire save to be of service to the 
kingdom and to acquit himself well of the great office that he held 
in trust. He blamed Eleanor for the ambitious thoughts that were, 
he said, as cankers to her mind; and he refused to entertain a 
single design against the king who was his lord — he would rather 
die, he said, than be false to his high power or dethrone the son 
of his great brother, the dead king. But Gloucester, while resolute 
in what he knew to be his duty, desired eagerly to crush the power- 
ful enemies who surrounded him, chief of whom was Cardinal 
Beaufort who formed many intrigues against him, setting snares 
and collecting false informers to undermine his power and work his 
death. 

The arrogance and pride of the lady Eleanor was not the least 
of Queen Margaret's reasons for desiring the ruin of the Duke of 
Gloucester; for Eleanor took little pains to hide the contempt she 
felt for Margaret who was, as Eleanor considered, a beggar who 
had gained her place through the mistaken charity of the king, her 
husband. Once Eleanor went so far as to say that the value of 
the gown she wore was greater than all Margaret's estate; that the 
queen had been dignified too highly above the humble station of her 
birth, that there were among Eleanor's own ladies many who were 
nobler than Margaret; and these proud words had been repeated to 
the queen. 

Margaret entertained a secret affection for the Duke of Suffolk to 
whom she now turned in her anger against Eleanor. She also ex- 
pressed to him the contempt she held for her own husband, for 
she said that she thought King Henry would resemble in his courage 
and manly graces the noble Duke of Suffolk himself, who had run 
a tilting in the honour of her love and stolen the hearts of all French 
ladies. How utterly was she deceived ! For Henry's courage 
served only to count his beads so many times a day. His weapons 
were not swords but the sayings of the prophets and apostles. His 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 411 

tilt yard was his study, and he loved the brazen images of holy 
saints far more than the most lovely lady in his realm. He ought 
to have been pope, said she, and ruled in Rome. That were a fit 
station for his holiness. And the queen cried out against the 
humility that Henry showed to his protector, the Duke of Gloucester, 
who was king in all but name, while Eleanor, the duke's wife, swept 
through the court like an empress with troops of ladies at her heels. 
Margaret continued that all the lords and noblemen who hated 
her and who opposed King Henry's claim upon the throne caused 
her not half the anger and vexation of the haughty duchess, Eleanor. 
She was resolved to be revenged, and she begged the Duke of 
Suffolk to assist her in working some great mischief upon Eleanor, 
either to bring about her death or at least to work the complete 
undoing of her exalted state at court. 

Suffolk bade the queen content herself. He had conceived a plan, 
he said, whereby he would betray dame Eleanor into a snare whence 
she might never be disentangled. He told the queen that his pur- 
pose would prove to Eleanor as a limed twig, and yet appear so 
attractive to her that she needs must light upon it. For Suffolk 
had prepared a plot that would cause Eleanor to work her own dis- 
grace and ruin; and Cardinal Beaufort and the Duke of York, with 
the Duke of Buckingham and other noblemen had joined with 
Suffolk to disgrace her, hoping by this means to overthrow her hated 
husband, Gloucester, and take away his power over the king. 

In those days, designing persons would often employ witchcraft 
and the powers of darkness to reveal to them futurity, and Suffolk 
had contrived to tempt the lady Eleanor, to seek such means as 
these to learn the state of her own future fortunes, although to do 
so was a crime punishable by death. Suffolk had engaged an artful 
impostor named Hume to lead her to a certain conjurer who had 
the power to summon forth dark spirits from the under world, 
and Suffolk hoped that Eleanor would be induced to seek this 
wizard and thus betray herself. He had prepared for Eleanor's 
immediate detection, and that she be taken in her guilt at once before 



412 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

King Henry, who would doubtless visit her with heavy punish- 
ment. 

Hume addressed himself to Eleanor with skill and cleverness, 
calling her in a significant manner " your Majesty " and when in 
amazement she questioned him as to his purpose in giving her 
such title, he replied that if she would follow his counsel she might 
soon become as great as he had named her. He bade her confer 
with the conjurer and learn King Henry's fate and her own future. 
Strong in this knowledge, said he, she could overcome her enemies 
and win whatever she desired. When Eleanor consented to this 
proceeding, Hume informed the Duke of Suffolk and the other noble- 
men, that she was prepared to call upon infernal powers to aid her 
in designs against the crown. 

Eleanor, indeed, had been only too ready to visit the conjurer, 
who prepared by various powerful spells and incantations to sum- 
mon from the bowels of the earth a fiend who should reply to all 
that might be asked. And in her presence the conjurer commenced 
his terrifying art, first making a blest circle from whose bounds the 
evil being he should summon might not pass to do them injury; 
he then uttered the strange words that penetrated through the earth, 
and dark spirit rose from the under world and appeared before 
them. 

When the question was put to this apparition, what should be the 
fate of England's king, it answered that the duke still lived who 
should depose Henry from the throne, but that Henry should out- 
live this duke, although at last he must die a violent death. On 
asking for the future of the Duke of Suffolk, the fiend said, " By 
water shall he die and take his end," and it then uttered a warning 
for the Duke of Somerset, the enemy to Richard of York, saying, 
"Let the Duke of Somerset avoid castles; safer shall he be upon 
the sandy plains," and crying out then that it could bear no more 
the spirit vanished with a clap of thunder. 

At this, the Duke of York and the Duke of Buckingham burst 
into the presence of the conjurer, and conveyed dame Eleanor with 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 413 

her accomplices before the king. And Henry was so stricken with 
horror at their crime that he prepared a bitter punishment for them, 
commanding that the conjurer and his assistants be put to instant 
execution, while Eleanor after three days' open penance on the 
streets, barefoot, with placards on her back proclaiming all her 
treachery, be banished to the Isle of Man and nevermore return to 
her own country. 

The utmost grief was shown by the Duke of Gloucester, who was 
forced now to behold his own dear wife whom he loved tenderly 
become the laughter and scorn of the insulting rabble, who followed 
her about the streets with mocking and ill favoured jests, reading 
the sentences pinned to her garments and laughing when the rough 
and flinty stones, where she was forced to tread, wounded her tender 
feet. Eleanor bade her husband farewell with utter sadness, saying 
that she knew too well that his enemies would soon have him in 
a plight as bitter as her own — his star was set, she said, and she 
beheld the downfall of his house. And Eleanor was led away to 
banishment, bearing her fate with calm resignation and a pride that 
became her far better than her former lofty arrogance. 

It seemed that the words of Eleanor were to fall true with greater 
swiftness than she herself had dreamed. For the king, while he 
entertained no anger against Gloucester, had bidden him resign his 
power as Lord Protector, saying that he would himself conduct 
the affairs of his country from that day forth, and require no over 
lord to direct him further in matters of state. And Gloucester 
rendered up to Henry the staff that he had carried as a sign of 
his protectorship, replying to the king that he resigned his power 
with gladness and content of spirit, even as he had received it from 
Henry's noble father. 

But Cardinal Beaufort, the Duke of Suffolk, and all the artful 
and ambitious men who wished the Duke of Gloucester's ruin, were 
not content with depriving him of his authority. They now caused 
Henry to summon him to court, where they laid upon him a great 
burden of accusations, whence the duke could hardly hope to free 



4H TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

himself. Until the day when Gloucester should be brought to trial, 
these nobles, in spite of Henry's futile efforts to restrain them, cast 
him into prison, and the charge of his safe keeping was given to 
Cardinal Beaufort, his most bitter enemy. 

Queen Margaret and the nobles who had thus overthrown 
Gloucester, feared lest Henry should disbelieve the charges against 
him, or offer him a pardon in spite of them. Being resolved upon 
his death, the conspirators against him consulted how it might best 
be effected, and they arranged that Gloucester be murdered in 
prison before he ever should be brought to trial. In this wicked pro- 
ceeding, Queen Margaret showed a great hardness of heart and 
pitiless desire for revenge. For when Suffolk suggested that 
Gloucester be put to death sleeping or waking by any means how- 
ever foul, she cried out that he spoke most resolutely, urged him 
not to relent from that ill deed and besought him to slay Gloucester 
with no thought save of gladness at his death. Suffolk then sent 
assassins to the prison who murdered Gloucester while he slept, 
arranging his garments and the bed whereon he lay, as though his 
death were caused by natural means. Suffolk then informed the 
king who was come to hear the charges against Gloucester, that the 
duke had died in prison of an unknown malady. 

But Henry, stricken with the utmost grief and horror at the 
death of his beloved uncle, refused to believe the words of Suffolk 
or of the Cardinal, who swore together that Gloucester had been 
treated with all kindness in his confinement — that they knew not 
of his death, or what had caused it, protesting their innocence so 
eagerly that this alone in a far-seeing person would have been suffi- 
cient to cast suspicion upon them. 

The king then bade the Earl of Salisbury to view the body of the 
murdered duke and to determine, were it possible, by what means 
his death had been effected. The earl brought word that violent 
hands had been laid upon him, and that every evidence was plain 
that Gloucester had been foully dealt with. Bearing the body be- 
fore King Henry, Salisbury bade him to look on the clenched hands, 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 415 

the staring eyes, the blood that remained in the face, instead of hav- 
ing returned as was natural in death to the labouring heart; and 
looking with horror on the Duke of Suffolk, Salisbury called him 
" murderer " and begged his majesty to spare no pains to put him 
to instant punishment. The Cardinal, too, he suspected; saying that 
when a heifer was found dead and bleeding fresh, and by its side a 
butcher one could not but conclude how the beast was slain; 
that he who found the body of a partridge in the nest of the kite 
could not but think how it had met its death, although the bird of 
prey soared with an unbloodied beak far from the place of slaugh- 
ter. The death of Gloucester, said the earl, was even clearer in its 
cause, and even more palpable to thought. 

The king, who was greatly moved by the hard fate of his be- 
loved uncle, Gloucester, showed for once a resolution that seemed 
foreign to his nature, for he ordered Suffolk into instant banishment, 
saying if he ever be found in England or any portion of the English 
dominions the world should not be ransom for his life. Suffolk 
was forced to take his leave forever from the queen he loved, and 
seek no more for power in the land where he was now a disgraced 
outcast. And the king prepared for the trial of Cardinal Beaufort 
who, however, was destined never to answer the grave charges 
against him ; for, whether from remorse, or fear for his own future 
fate the Cardinal fell ill of a severe fever that resulted in his death. 
And to those who attended at his bedside, his guilty heart was dis- 
closed in all its wickedness, for he would cry out strangely about 
Gloucester, saying that he would confess, or bidding the ghost of 
him he had murdered to torture him no more but leave him to make 
his peace with Heaven ere he died. 

It seemed, indeed, as if a divine power of justice followed those 
who were guilty of this shameful murder. For the Duke of Suf- 
folk was slain as he fled from England by pirates who captured the 
vessel that conveyed him. And thus the saying of the evil spirit 
came to pass, for Suffolk died and took his end by water even as had 
been prophesied. 



4 i6 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

But although Henry in the death of the Cardinal and of the hard 
hearted and ambitious Duke of Suffolk had escaped two chief de- 
signers against his crown and life, there were still many powerful 
enemies near his person, who awaited only their good vantage to 
confound him utterly. Chief of these was Richard, Duke of York, 
who was seeking to become king. Richard had been given the com- 
mand of a large troop of soldiers who were to put down a rebellion 
that had arisen against Henry among the chiefs of Ireland; and 
Richard believed this task would prove a heaven sent opportunity 
to seize the crown. Wanting soldiers for his purpose, he was now 
possessed of them, and he retired to Ireland with the intent of nour- 
ishing there a mighty army, calling to his rebellious banner the very 
enemies he had been sent forth to subdue. When his force should 
be sufficient in its power, Richard determined to return to England 
as invader, do battle with King Henry and leave no man alive who 
might dispute his claim upon the throne. 

In the meanwhile, Richard plotted to arouse rebellion and discord 
that should shake all England in his absence and prevent his enemies 
from maintaining any sort of order until he was prepared to fall 
upon them. With this intent he took into his service a bold rascal 
named John Cade, who was well known as a sturdy soldier and a 
man of rash and fiery temper. Cade for a purse of gold would fight 
against all odds, and preferred the turbulence of an armed camp, 
plunder, rioting and confusion to the quiet and contentment of a 
state at peace. Cade, moreover, would suffer any torture ere he 
would betray his confederates, or be false to those whom he had 
bound himself to serve. 

This hot-headed rascal was induced by Richard to make a false 
claim upon the crown through a feigned relationship to the Morti- 
mer who had been overthrown in the fight at Shrewsbury. Cade 
maintained that a son to Edmund Mortimer was stolen from his 
cradle and reared, ignorant of his great birth, amid humble sur- 
roundings. This son, said Cade, was no other than himself, and 
now aware of his claim to royalty he would enforce it by all means 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 417 

within his power. And Cade ordered that any who opposed his 
claim, should meet swift justice as a traitor to his king. 

With an army of idle and rebellious vagabonds, jailbirds, the off- 
scourings of city streets — all ill-favoured persons that sought gold 
without labour and hated the more fortunate, Cade marched towards 
London. On his way he recruited his ranks by opening the prisons 
and setting free all who were confined there. He won the hearts 
of the ignorant and discontented by marvellous promises of the won- 
ders he would perform when king of England, for he said that all 
things, then, should be in common; the lowest beggar and the 
proudest nobleman should have an equal share of wealth; the laws 
that oppressed the poor — all laws in fact — should be abolished, 
and the king himself should prove sufficient law to all the realm; all 
documents of state, said Cade, should be publicly burned; wine 
should flow as water in his dominions; and knowledge how to read 
and write should be crimes punishable by death. 

The rabble that composed Cade's army were ready to follow him 
into any danger believing that England was to enter on a state of 
happiness and plenty unparalleled in all the history of the world — 
a heaven on. earth, where none need labour to support himself, 
where food and drink were to be had for the asking and the people 
gain their ancient liberties. And at head of his army of rogues 
Cade entered London, overcoming in battle a force of soldiers sent 
against him by the king. 

But the superior temper of the nobles and gentlemen who sur- 
rounded Henry was not long in manifesting itself, for the Duke of 
Buckingham and a lord named Clifford, who was Henry's most 
faithful supporter, addressed the rabble in a speech that soon won 
them from the impostor who led them. These lords said that the 
king sent greeting to his subjects whom he would pardon, one and 
all if they did yield to mercy while it was offered them; and they 
spoke of Henry the Fifth, at whose name the people tossed their 
caps into the air, so greatly had this king been loved even among 
the basest of his subjects. The noblemen then called Cade, their 



4 i8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

leader, an impostor who had no home to fly to nor any means 
of support except in riot and turmoil such as he had aroused. The 
French, said they, would soon be lording it in London streets when 
Cade was crowned. And Cade was forced to take to his heels, pur- 
sued now by his own followers for Buckingham had set a heavy 
price upon his life; and it was not long before this rogue was slain 
and his head brought to King Henry. 

But the turmoil and dissension stirred up by the rascal Cade, had 
served only too well the purpose of the Duke of York, who now 
had landed on the English coast with a formidable army composed 
of his own soldiers and the savage warriors of Ireland who had en- 
listed under his banner. Richard of York marched on London, 
claiming, to deceive the king, that he came only to punish the Duke 
of Somerset for misconducting the affairs of France where the duke 
had ruled as deputy to Henry. 

This in itself was a piece of insolence almost unparalleled, for 
the punishment of Somerset, were it deserved should have been ad- 
ministered by none but Henry himself. No subject should have 
dared to make such a demand, which was indeed inspired only 
through the meekness of King Henry, who knew not his own rights, 
nor the contempt and slight regard with which his enemies esteemed 
him. 

Henry in great fear of the stout army that York as an in- 
vader was leading against him, gave order that the Duke of Somer- 
set be imprisoned in the Tower of London as Richard of York de- 
manded, sending word to Richard that he should now disband his 
forces for their purpose had been effected. 

On hearing this, York made a pretence of discharging his soldiers, 
bidding them, however, to meet him on the next day at Saint 
George's field when he would pay them for their services. And he 
hastened in advance of his own men to interview the king, seeking 
another cause for quarrel with him. 

The Duke of York had already won from the cause of Henry 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, SECOND PART 419 

two of his most steadfast supporters — the Earl of Salisbury and 
his son, the Earl of Warwick — whom he had convinced of the 
justice in his claim to Henry's crown. And while these lords still 
waited in attendance upon Henry, they were prepared upon an in- 
stant's notice to join the Duke of York and serve his cause with the 
same loyalty that once they showed unto the present king. The 
service of these lords would not unprobably decide the issue of the 
coming contest, for they were skilled in arts of war and possessed 
a force of soldiers that would prove a great addition to York's 
cause. 

The queen, whose proud spirit could not bear that York should 
command her husband, had set the Duke of Somerset at liberty and 
when York came before the king, Queen Margaret and Somerset 
confronted him. 

York in an outburst of rage showed on the instant his whole pur- 
pose for he addressed Henry with unbridled insolence, calling him 
" false king," and demanding the reason that Henry had thus broken 
faith with him. He then said that while he had just called Henry 
" king," he revoked the name, for Henry was more fit to grasp a 
palmer's staff than hold a sceptre, — that bright sign of dreadful 
and kingly power that Henry could not and dared not employ. He 
commanded Henry to give way to him, the Duke of York, whom 
Heaven had created as Henry's ruler; and he called to his support 
his two friends, the Earl of Salisbury and Warwick, whom he 
called his two brave bears that with the very shaking of their 
chains should fright all men that remained unshaken in their 
service to King Henry. York also summoned to his side his two 
sons, Edward and the hump-back, Richard, of whom it was said that 
his manners and spirit were more crooked than his shape. Casting 
defiance at Henry, the queen and all who still supported them, York 
with his turbulent followers then quitted the king's presence — not, 
however, before the Earl of Clifford vowed that in the coming con- 
flict he would destroy him — a vow that York and Warwick an- 



4 20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

swered by warning Clifford, while the deformed Richard bade Clif- 
ford to make his peace with Heaven where his enemies should 
shortly send him. 

Thus began the terrible wars of the roses that were to end by 
York's sons, Edward and Richard, becoming kings of England. 
The forces of King Henry and the Duke of York met in battle on 
the field of Saint Albans, and in this fight the Earl of Clifford was 
slain by York's own hand, while Richard, York's son, who in spite 
of his misshapen body was a soldier of great skill and daring, over- 
came and slew the Duke of Somerset. And it so chanced that 
Somerset was slain at the doorway of an inn called The Castle and 
that the words of the spirit summoned before Lady Eleanor were 
thus a second time come true, although in a way far different from 
what all had imagined. 

Lord Clifford, who was slain by the Duke of York, had a son 
who was destined to become the greatest champion of Henry's cause, 
and young Clifford on beholding the body of his dead father swore 
that he would never rest until a complete vengeance had overtaken 
York and all his house. For the sight of his dead father steeled 
his heart against all thoughts of mercy; and caused him to become 
a restless and inexorable enemy to all York's followers, inspiring 
them with fear and hatred against him. 

The battle in the meanwhile had gone badly with the forces of 
King Henry, who was compelled to fly to London with the queen and 
all his followers ere they should all be slain or captured by the Duke 
of York. And Margaret became the chief commander of her hus- 
band's fortunes, conducting the affairs of his army and the emergen- 
cies of his defeat with a courage and resolution that seemed beyond 
a woman, showing herself, though wicked, possessed of an in- 
domitable spirit that prolonged for many years the struggle for the 
crown between the rival claims of York and Lancaster. 



THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH 

WHEN the army of King Henry was defeated, there was 
great rejoicing among the noblemen that followed the 
Duke of York, for they now hoped to behold their lord 
upon the throne of England. The hump-backed Richard brought 
to his father the head of the Duke of Somerset. And although 
York's other sons had worked fierce vengeance on his enemies, he 
cried that Richard had deserved the best of all and that Richard's 
trophy was the fairest sight he had beheld that day. 

The Duke of York with his followers, determined then to enter 
the parliament-house at London, believing that King Henry would 
assemble all his party in that place, for York had planned to occupy 
the chair of state, and from that proud position to defy Henry, 
when he should enter, bid him resign all claim upon his title and in 
case he should refuse call soldiers to attack him; and York's fol- 
lowers remarked that unless the weakling, Henry, utterly renounced 
the name of king upon the spot, that assembly should be called 
" The Bloody Parliament." 

When Henry and his lords came to the parliament-house, this 
most unwelcome sight awaited them, for they beheld the Duke of 
York seated in the chair of highest dignity; by his side sat the am- 
bitious Earl of Warwick in full armour, York's sons, Edward and 
Richard, were also near him, eager to draw swords against the king, 
and other noblemen with weapons in their hands surrounded him. 
They gazed on the approaching king as though he came to do them 
open battle, as though the hall of state, where they assembled, were 
besieged by an advancing enemy; and York was fully prepared to 
outrage its great dignity and to profane the memory of many 
kings who had devoted it to peace and justice, by doing battle 
in that consecrated place. 

421 



422 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

King Henry bade his followers to behold the sturdy rebel who 
usurped the seat that none but kings should occupy, profaning it 
with arms and open defiance of its sacred name. He besought 
his lords to remain faithful to him in his hour of danger, and 
bade Lord Clifford and the Earl of Northumberland to remember 
how the Duke of York had slain their fathers, and how they had 
vowed to be revenged on York and all his house. 

" The hope of that revenge," said Clifford, " makes me mourn 
in steel." 

Northumberland expressed himself with equal bitterness, pray- 
ing Heaven to punish him if he did not fully requite his father's 
death. Other noblemen besought King Henry to attack the rebel 
instantly, to hurl him from the chair whereon he sat and put him 
to a sudden execution, for York once dead, said they, his soldiers 
would soon fly and the crown become assured to Henry with no 
further bloodshed. 

But Henry had not the courage to attempt what they advised 
him, for he feared the soldiers of his enemies, and dared not to 
defy their power in so bold a manner. He bade his lords have 
patience and think upon the holy place where they were assembled, 
for never, said he, should they profane it by their swords. Frowns, 
words and threats should be his only weapons; and he addressed 
the Duke of York, commanding him to leave his throne and kneel 
for mercy at the feet of his lawful sovereign. 

York replied most haughtily, bidding the king in his turn to 
kneel to him, acknowledge his due title to the crown, and ask pardon 
for usurping the high power that belonged to the house of York. 
He was prepared, he said, to prove his right upon the spot; and 
if Henry would not hear him, his sword must plead his cause 
in battle. Edward and Richard loudly besought their father to 
tear the crown from the usurping Henry's head and place it on his 
own, to sound his drums and trumpets and manifest his power, when 
Henry, they said, would become afraid and do whatever they com- 
manded him. 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 423 

The Earl of Warwick, however, who observed that the king 
was strangely agitated, bade them be silent and let Henry speak, 
for he believed that in so doing, Henry, who had not at his com- 
mand the arguments that could be marshalled to prove his right, 
would betray himself even further into the power of the house of 
York; that Henry's own lords in hearing him plead as though 
before a court of justice for the crown his father and grandfather 
had worn with such nobility, would behold his weakness and fall 
from him. And, indeed, the Earl of Warwick's purpose was suc- 
cessful beyond his utmost hopes, for Henry addressed his enemies 
with unworthy mildness, asking them if it were not lawful to adopt 
an heir as Richard the Second had adopted the great king, Henry 
the Fourth — then, said he, his title to the crown would be clear 
and evident. Not only did Henry speak in this unwise manner of 
King Richard (who had been compelled by force of arms and fear 
of instant death to resign his title) but he spoke of the great deeds 
performed in France by Henry the Fifth, forgetting that his own 
weak rule had lost that land forever. 

The effect of this ignoble speech was shown in the action of the 
Duke of Exeter, who hitherto had served King Henry with the 
utmost loyalty. Exeter now said that in his conscience he believed 
that York should gain the throne in place of Henry, and in the 
presence of Henry whom he had served so long, he prepared to 
join Warwick among those whom he had but lately considered as 
traitors both to England and their rightful king. 

Lord Clifford and Lord Northumberland, however, defied War- 
wick with great bitterness, saying that whether Henry's claim be 
right or wrong, they vowed to fight in his defense; and Clifford 
cried out that the ground should gape and swallow him alive ere 
he would kneel before the duke that slew his father. 

Warwick on hearing them demanded in great anger that Henry 
instantly renounce the title of king, or he would fill the house with 
soldiers and write over the chair of state York's claim upon the 
kingdom in the blood of Henry and his followers. He stamped 



4 2 4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

his foot to summon soldiers, who appeared with drawn swords in 
all the entrances, prepared, upon command, to make attack on 
Henry and his followers. 

Now did Henry in fear of death perform the most ignoble act 
of all his reign, give ground to his enemies that never was wholly 
reclaimed from them and alienate forever the affections of his 
own supporters. When Henry beheld the soldiers that surrounded 
him, he forgot in utter terror both his rights as king and the proud 
bearing that befitted his royal station. And he implored the Earl 
of Warwick to hear him but one word, saying that if the Duke of 
York would allow him to reign in peace and contentment for the 
remainder of his natural life, he would confirm the crown to York 
and his heirs forever after. By this base proposal Henry lost com- 
pletely the respect of the brave lords that had supported him, for 
Clifford and Northumberland cried out in rage on this unmanly 
action, saying that they would not stop to hear so shameful an 
agreement. How much wrong, said they, had Henry done both to 
the prince, his son, and the great kings who were his ancestors ! 
They quitted the parliament with bitter words, saying that in the 
faint-hearted Henry there lay no spark of honour, and that they 
now hoped he would be slain on the field or forced to live in shame- 
ful peace, abandoned and despised by all the world. 

Northumberland and Clifford then informed the queen of the 
disgrace that Henry had brought upon them — how the prince's 
title had been lost forever, how Henry in spite of his great birth 
had shown himself contemptible beyond all words and how they 
had refused to serve beneath a ruler who lacked utterly all sense 
of shame, richly deserving to lose the crown. And to the king then, 
came Queen Margaret with her son the former Prince of Wales, 
so basely sacrificed by his faint-hearted father. 

But the followers of York were filled with joy at this compact, 
for the duke could not but hope by course of years and time of life 
to survive Henry. Or what would be easier than secretly to make 
away with such a king who governed with so weak a rule that his 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 425 

subjects would not feel their loss or know that the feeble Henry 
ceased to live until the stronger hand of York were laid upon them? 
The Earl of Warwick and the other nobles cried out now that York 
and Lancaster were reconciled. They bade their duke embrace the 
king in pledge of new and everlasting friendship; and York with 
all his followers in triumph quitted the parliament-house, leaving 
King Henry forsaken in that place of state, where Margaret and 
her wronged son discovered him. 

Margaret said she wished she never had beheld her husband and 
never born a son to so unnatural a father. Fainer would she have 
died a maid than wedded a king unworthy of the name, unworthy, 
indeed, even to be called a man, for that he could be put to shame 
in noble action by the humblest peasant in his realm. She bade him 
to think not that he would be safe in this agreement. Such safety, 
she said, is found by the trembling lamb surrounded by wolves. 
Had she been there the soldiers would have tossed her on their 
pikes before she would have granted such an act. It was an act, 
she said, to make King Henry creep untimely to his grave, crowded 
out of life by those who sought his place and high authority. And 
she added that until it were repealed, and her son, so basely dis- 
inherited, given back his rights, she would divorce herself from 
Henry's table and his bed, refuse to look upon his face or call him 
by the name of " husband." Then Margaret in anger left her 
lord and prepared to follow Clifford and Northumberland, saying 
that while they would refuse to fight for Henry, nevertheless they 
would support her cause, for though a woman she would lead an 
army against York and win again the rights that had been yielded 
to him with more than a woman's weakness. 

The Duke of York, however, did not think long of the promise 
he had given Henry, but prepared to take the crown at once, and 
to confound his enemies so they might nevermore disturb him, 
or question his right to the high power he had won. Edward and 
Richard, his sons, urged him to do further battle at once against the 
house of Lancaster, saying that this agreement was a breathing 



426 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

space wherein their enemies might win back all their former power. 
When York spoke of his oath, and said that in doing this it would 
be broken and he lose his honour forever, Edward replied that for 
his part he would break a thousand oaths to reign one year; 
and Richard, who was no less dishonest but more crafty than his 
brother, said that the Duke of York need not even forswear himself 
or break the smallest fragment of his vow. His oath, said Richard, 
had not been taken before a true and lawful magistrate, for Henry 
being a usurper had not authority, and could compel no man 
to do his bidding except by violence and unjust means. The 
oath, therefore, was void and had no binding power. And Richard 
bade his father to think how sweet a thing it was to wear a crown, 
within whose narrow circle lay all that poets feigned of bliss and 
joy — all the wealth and honour of a country; until the Duke of 
York cried out enough, saying that he would be king, or die in fight- 
ing to attain the crown. 

But Margaret, with Clifford and Northumberland and all the 
nobles that deserted Henry, now opposed the Duke of York before 
the very gates of his own town. They had gathered beneath their 
banners a force of twenty thousand men — far more than York 
could hope to muster, and they met the duke in a severe battle near 
a place called Wakefield where the odds were great against him. 

The Duke of York had a young son named Rutland, who being 
but a child had taken no part in the quarrel of his father against 
the king; but this boy, with his tutor, had been near the place of 
battle, and was captured by the angry Clifford who slew him without 
a thought of mercy. For Clifford was so enraged at the death 
of his father, who though an old man had been slain on the 
field by York's own hand, that he had sworn to leave no member 
of York's family alive — and neither the innocence of this tender 
child nor the pity aroused in the hearts of the soldiers that had cap- 
tured him could move the hard-hearted Clifford to spare his life. 
And Clifford, with the blood of the unhappy child upon his sword, 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 427 

sought out the Duke of York, saying that he should not be content 
until he too had fallen before his vengeance. 

It seemed that the triumph of Queen Margaret and Clifford was 
complete, for after putting to flight the forces of their enemies, 
they came on York himself, wearied and half dead and fallen far 
behind the soldiers that deserted him. York was captured by Mar- 
garet and her followers, and Margaret spoke to him of Rutland's 
death and gave him a handkerchief that she had dipped in the child's 
blood, bidding him, if that he chose to weep to dry his eyes upon it. 
She crowned him with a paper diadem, and when Lord Clifford 
moved to slay him, bade him wait for she would hear the prayers 
that York would say before he died. And York then wept, and 
said that he washed away with tears the blood of his sweet boy. 
He gave again the handkerchief to Margaret, bidding her make 
boast of it, for if she told the story right, even his foes would shed 
fast-falling tears and say it was a piteous deed. Lord Clifford then 
turned his sword against him, and Margaret bade her soldiers take 
the traitor's head and set it with its paper crown upon the city gates, 
so York might overlook the town of York, where once he ruled. 

But York's two sons, Edward and Richard, had fled and had col- 
lected as well as they were able, all who were left alive from out 
their scattered army. Other nobles joined them until they were 
prepared once more to make headway against Queen Margaret. 
And when they heard of the death of their father and the murder 
of their innocent brother, Rutland — how this had been effected 
by Clifford and the heartless queen, and how the blood of Rut- 
land had been offered to his sorrowing father at the moment of 
his own death, Edward and Richard could hardly contain them- 
selves, and vowed that they would not rest nor take an instant's ease 
before these monsters met a fate of equal bitterness. And Edward 
and Richard at the head of a great force of soldiers met the army 
of Margaret on Towton Field, where they completely overcame all 
of her forces, routed the lords that aided her and forced Margaret 



428 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

herself to fly from England, where now there was no safety for any 
of her followers. 

In this battle, retribution overtook Lord Clifford who died of 
grievous wounds inflicted on him by Richard. For Richard, al- 
though misshapen until he seemed not human, was given in his anger 
a formidable power that enabled him to cope with soldiers far 
stronger than himself. And the rage of this deformed creature, 
his gruff voice, grumbling the foulest curses on his enemies, the 
evil that in battle seemed to leap forth from his heart and shine 
upon his countenance, produced in all who fought with him a fear 
that seemed not earthly — as terrible indeed as the appearance of 
the prodigy that opposed them. 

There was now no further hindrance to Edward's being crowned 
king of England, and the ceremony was speedily performed in the 
presence of those nobles who had fought to place the crown on 
his father's head and who transferred their loyalty, as a matter of 
course, to Edward, on the Duke of York's unhappy death. Edward 
gave to his brothers the dukedoms that were nearest to the crown, 
creating George who was nearest to his own age and higher, there- 
fore, in rank than the ill-favoured Richard, Duke of Clarence, while 
Richard was appointed Duke of Gloucester — an ominous title for 
the murder of the duke who lately held it, had cast a shadow on 
that name. 

When Margaret's forces were defeated, King Henry fled to 
Scotland, and liking not the land where he was forced to take his 
refuge, he stole in disguise over the borderland of England for 
no other purpose than to behold again the country where he was 
now a hunted exile. In his wandering, he fell into the hands of 
huntsmen to whom he had revealed himself by musing aloud within 
their hearing, upon the most unhappy change that had befallen him. 
For Henry had filled the air with sighs and cried out that his land 
was native to him no longer. His place was filled, his scepter 
wrung from his hands; no man would come to him again to seek 
redress, and no bending knee would do him homage as a king. 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 429 

Henry also had called on the name of his wife, Margaret, who had 
fled across the sea to seek the aid of Lewis, King of France, saying 
that he hoped her suit would prosper at Lewis' hands; and when 
the huntsmen heard these words, they knew that he who stood 
before them was the deposed king and conveyed him as a captive to 
Edward. And Henry was confined in the Tower of London and 
kept there a close prisoner. 

When Edward had been crowned, he soon began to show a reck- 
lessness of purpose and a disregard of the noblemen who were his 
friends that speedily awakened their anger. For the new king con- 
ducted himself in a haughty and imperious manner, treating them 
as absolute inferiors, preferring, as it seemed, to hold his power 
by arousing fear in his retainers rather than make the name of king 
loved and revered as had been done by Henry the Fifth without 
the loss of any of his high authority. 

Edward, as it chanced, had sent the Earl of Warwick as ambassa- 
dor to France for the purpose of requesting the hand of Lewis' sister, 
the princess Bona, whom he desired to make queen of England, 
thinking, and not unwisely, that alliance with the French through 
marriage would make firm the ties that bound him to his throne. 
Before Warwick had returned with word of his success, however, 
King Edward had determined to wed elsewhere, for he had con- 
ceived a passion for one of his own subjects, a lady of great virtue, 
wit and good appearance but of humbler rank than Edward and not 
to be considered for the dignity of queen by any ruler who held 
at his heart the welfare of his subjects or respect for his great title. 
This lady was, moreover, a widow, and possessed of several children, 
who, as she said, the king would like but little to hear name him 
father. Being of excellent sense and spirit, she plainly beheld the 
difficulties that would attend her exalted rank — indeed, she would 
have refused it but that Edward pressed her beyond all power of 
resistance, commanding her, as her own sovereign to obey his royal 
pleasure. And Edward sent letters to the Earl of Warwick, bid- 
ding him return to England for his embassy was now to no purpose 



430 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

— England's queen was chosen and there could be no further thought 
of binding France to the English throne by marriage. 

It happened that Queen Margaret had come before King Lewis 
to beseech his aid for Henry at the same time that Warwick re- 
quested him to confer the hand of Princess Bona on King Edward; 
and the court of France beheld the bitterness of these two enemies, 
each of whom bade Lewis have no trust in the fair words of the other 
which were against all faith and honesty. But Lewis, who thought 
only of advantage to himself, beholding that Edward was in power 
and Henry an outcast of no strength, save the strength that France 
might lend him, listened more favourably to the Earl of Warwick 
and determined that the princess should become the bride of Ed- 
ward. It was at this time and Lewis had just consented to this 
alliance when word arrived of Edward's sudden marriage. 

The anger of King Lewis at thus being trifled with was exceeded 
only by the rage of Warwick, who protested that he knew not of 
this marriage, that Edward in performing it had grossly deceived 
him, and that he would have no further dealing with the false 
king, but pull him from the throne by violence, doing justice to the 
injured Henry. Turning to Margaret the Earl of Warwick then 
asked her pardon for the injuries that he had worked upon her. 
Henceforth, said he, she would find in him the truest friend of all, 
for through his aid her husband should regain his crown. And 
Warwick asked Lewis to aid him in a war against King Ed- 
ward, for in this way alone, said Warwick, could the insult done to 
Lewis' gracious sister be avenged. 

A troop of soldiers was at once prepared, and Lewis said that 
Queen Margaret with a far larger army should soon follow War- 
wick to England. Lewis then bade the messenger return and defy 
the English king, saying to him that Lewis of France was sending 
over masquers who should revel it with Edward and his bride, 
while Margaret bade the messenger to say that her robes of sorrow 
were now laid aside and that she had again put armour on. 

Warwick's soldiers reached England with such swiftness that 



KING HENRY THE SIXTH, THIRD PART 431 

they caught King Edward off his guard and took him prisoner. 
Henry was set at freedom, and the house of Lancaster returned to 
all its former power. The brothers of King Edward, and his 
friends and followers, in their turn were now forced to become exiles, 
and it seemed as if the wars that for so long had shaken England 
were at end. 

But the scheming Richard, brother to King Edward, although 
friends and enemies were equally hateful to him, who seemed himself 
to be formed all of hatred with no love for any human being, no 
joy save in gaining power over others and working injury upon 
them, now determined if possible to set his brother free and aid 
him to escape to Flanders. For Richard, who aimed at no less than 
to become king himself, must first behold his brother safe upon the 
throne. 

Richard, therefore, with a company of friends contrived in an 
artful manner to accomplish his brother's freedom, who, when hunt- 
ing was torn from the guard that accompanied him, and hurried on 
shipboard, setting sail at once for Flanders. And there Edward 
raised an army with such speed that in his turn now he came un- 
awares upon his enemies; Henry was recaptured and sent again into 
his prison in the tower, while the Earl of Warwick was surrounded 
by enemies and after a severe battle slain by the hand of Edward. 
And the fortunes of this contest were again completely changed, for 
Margaret was still in France occupied there in raising the force of 
soldiers that King Lewis had promised her; and the power of War- 
wick had been destroyed as utterly as their own leader, who lay dead 
upon the field of battle. 

When the army of Margaret was at last assembled, and with 
her son, young Edward, she had arrived at the English coast and 
prepared for battle, Edward and Richard met her with a great force 
of soldiers and defeated her so thoroughly that there could never 
be further thought of her opposing them. Both Margaret and 
Edward, her son, were taken prisoners; and Edward was slain be- 
fore his mother's eyes in the same manner that young Rutland had 



432 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

met his death by the sword of Clifford. For the king with his 
brothers, bidding Margaret to think on that former crime, slew 
the prince with the same cruelty that Margaret had slain their 
father, the Duke of York. And Margaret in this way was com- 
pletely punished, for although hard of heart, the greater measure 
of her rage had come from York's designs against the prince, her 
son, who now lay slain before her. 

Margaret called on him to speak and knelt beside him, and she 
begged the king and his brothers to turn their swords against her 
breast and complete their work of murder. But when Richard 
turned upon her with uplifted sword and prepared to strike her 
down, his brothers held his arm bidding him to desist; for Mar- 
garet must live, they said, and behold the overthrow of all her high 
ambitions. And Edward bade his men convey Margaret into some 
place of captivity until he should decide upon her fate. 

Richard, when his brothers had prevented him from slaying Mar- 
garet, bade them listen for a piece of news that they should hear 
before nightfall; he leaped upon his horse and spurred for London 
where he came to the prison of King Henry and demanded instant 
admission, saying that he would confer alone with Henry on matters 
that touched him deeply. Richard bade the unfortunate king pre- 
pare for death, and told him how his son was slain and his queen a 
prisoner in the hands of Edward. And he cruelly murdered the 
defenseless Henry, who met his end with resignation and, what 
seemed remarkable in one of his weak spirit, with an utter lack of 
the fear so often manifested by him. 

Thus the line of the great Henrys ceased to exist, and Edward 
became lawful king of England. Queen Margaret was conveyed 
to her father's court at Naples under sentence of eternal banish- 
ment. And Richard was now left free to weave dark plots against 
the lives of his own brothers who stood between him and the crown 
that he resolved to win; and to become, as soon he did, the chief 
adviser of King Edward who ruled in triumph over all the English 
dominions. 



THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE THIRD 

THE crown of England being assured to the great house of 
York, Richard, the Duke of Gloucester, determined to be 
king in place of his brother Edward, who then reigned; for 
Richard, whom deformity had rendered unfit for ordinary happiness, 
sought with his whole heart to become greater than the more 
fortunate persons that surrounded him; being unable to share the 
joys of these, or follow the happy occupations of a time of peace. 
For how could Richard court his fellow nobles, or present a pleas- 
ing aspect to a lady's eye, — Richard who had been born before his 
time, misshapen and half finished, bearing a hideous mountain on 
his back and compelled to be a thing apart from all his fellows? 
Thus, being barred from all soft pleasure and all gentler sort of 
happiness that men delight in, he believed a royal crown to be his 
utmost fortune; since he could not command love, he was determined 
to awaken fear, and he resolved to destroy all who should come 
between him and his intention of becoming king. And the pur- 
poses of Richard were deadly, all the more so that he hid them 
in his heart and showed the world an open and deceiving face of 
friendship. 

Richard could not hope to become king so long as his brother, 
the Duke of Clarence was alive, for Clarence was older than 
himself, and nearer therefore to the royal line of Edward. Even 
before Clarence could rule, the two young sons of Edward must 
come to power; and these children, although very young, were quick 
of wit and pleasing of appearance, of such tender and bright natures 
that it seemed as if all England must be happy in their reign. 
Richard secretly meditated evil against his nephews, and also against 
his brother, the Duke of Clarence, seeking by what means he could 
effect his death. For Edward, the king, had been stricken with a 

433 



434 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

sudden illness, whence Richard hoped that he would never rise; 
and if Richard could murder the Duke of Clarence, he knew that he 
could then effect the ruin of his nephews and seize upon the crown 
that he desired. 

King Edward, who then lay upon his sick-bed, was prone to be- 
lieve in divinations of all sorts, in the workings of witchcraft and 
the power of strange dreams to foretell the future; and Richard, 
who was aware of this, determined by means of false prophecies and 
dangerous sayings that he caused to be spread abroad, to awaken 
the king's hatred against his brother, Clarence. Richard hoped that 
Clarence would be cast into prison and put to death there for some 
crime that should be foretold against him; and a prophecy reached 
Edward's ears that soon effected the first part of Richard's purpose, 
for it told that one whose name began with G would murder the 
king's sons and seek the throne. Edward who thought not of 
Richard (the Duke of Gloucester), believed this prophecy to mean 
his more honest brother, Clarence, whose first name indeed was 
George; and Clarence was placed under arrest and imprisoned in 
the Tower of London, where the late king, Henry the Sixth, had 
been so recently and darkly murdered. 

On his way to prison, Clarence was encountered by Richard, 
who asked him, with great appearance of surprise, why he was thus 
attended by armed men; was he under arrest, and if so for what 
cause? Clarence replied that he had been made prisoner because 
of an idle prophecy concerning his name of George, which he could 
not help, and he knew not, said he, why his brother Edward who was 
wont to be so affectionate had turned against him for so slight a 
reason. 

" No," said Richard, " it is not the king who has imprisoned you. 
It is the queen, who without doubt has borne false tales against you 
and laboured for your injury. No man is safe against her displeas- 
ure." Richard had designs against the queen and hated her as well 
as his brother Clarence. He went on to say how the queen and one 
Mistress Shore ruled all the kingdom, ana! how ill fortune favoured 



KING RICHARD THE THIRD 435 

all that incurred their spite. But Clarence need not fear, continued 
Richard, for he would win him back to favour with King Edward. 
And he embraced his brother, saying that he would deliver him ere 
long, adding, however, when the guard had led Clarence out of 
hearing: " Deliver you, aye that I will, simple, plain Clarence! Go 
tread the path that you shall not return, for I will shortly send your 
soul to Heaven." 

The king, who, in his sickness had fallen into a state of fear, 
and possessed no more that sound and well ordered judgment that 
would keep him from injustice and prevent him from committing 
thoughtless actions that later he must repent, had become so angered 
against the Duke of Clarence that he gave an order for his death* 
He commanded that Clarence be murdered secretly within his prison 
cell; and although remorseful pity came upon Edward before this 
hard-hearted command was executed, until he sent a second order 
that revoked the harsh decree upon his brother, Richard now could 
murder Clarence with perfect safety and lay the blame of the murder 
on Edward, forcing him to think his own command had been obeyed. 
So Richard gave a warrant for the death of Clarence to assassins 
that he hired, bidding them to go at once to the Tower and fulfill 
their wicked errand on his brother. 

The Duke of Clarence, without knowing it, had been warned 
in a terrible dream of his approaching fate. He had dreamed that 
with his brother Richard he took ship for Burgundy; that together 
they looked back upon the shores of England they were leaving, and 
recalled to mind a thousand dreadful times in the wars of York 
and Lancaster that had befallen them. As they paced along the 
hatches of their vessel, — a giddy footing — Richard stumbled, 
and struck Clarence, who had thought to stay him, overboard into 
the sea. There Clarence dreamed that he was drowned, with 
dreadful noise of waters in his ears and ugly sights of death that 
came before his eyes. He beheld the fearful wrecks of vessels 
scattered on the bottom of the sea, and he thought that on the 
sands there lay ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon. Vast 



436 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

heaps of treasure lay there — bars of gold and pearls and pre- 
cious stones, some of which were lodged in dead men's skulls and 
shone as if in scorn of the eyes they had displaced. At last, Clarence 
dreamed, he died; and there began a tempest to his soul, for it 
crossed the melancholy river that hems in the under world, where 
he met the mighty Earl of Warwick whom he had betrayed, and 
Edward, Henry's son, whom he had helped to murder; and a legion 
of foul fiends surrounded him and howled into his ears with dreadful 
cries, until in utter fear he started from his slumber unable to think 
for some time after but that he had been in Hell. 

To Clarence, then, there came the murderers who were to work 
his death; and Richard had commanded them to use all haste in what 
they were to do, for Clarence, as he said, knew well how to employ 
the art of speech, and perchance might win them to be merciful if 
they delayed to hear him beg for life. They stood beside the 
sleeping man and were prepared to strike him with their swords 
before he should awaken, when Clarence stirred from slumber and 
gazed upon them. Beholding in what deadly way they looked on 
him, he asked them if their purpose were his death; they replied, 
ay, and bade him prepare at once to meet it for they should not 
leave that chamber while he lived. 

" You hardly have the hearts to tell me so," said Clarence, " and 
cannot therefore have the hearts to seek my life. How, my friends, 
have I offended you? " 

When they said they came upon the king's orders, Clarence bade 
them think upon that king of kings, whose ^law commanded them 
to do no murder. He besought them to be merciful. He said 
that before long he would be reconciled with Edward. If the king 
had paid them for his death, let them go, said he, to his kind 
brother, Richard, for Richard loved him and would reward them 
far more generously for his life than Edward for the deed that 
they intended. At the name of Richard, however, the murderers 
looked at each other askance and bade him say no more, for it was 
Richard that had sent them, saying that Richard, whom Clarence 



KING RICHARD THE THIRD 437 

had named kind, was as kind as a blighting frost, or snow in 
harvest time. They then murdered Clarence and drowned his 
body for concealment in a cask of wine that happened to be near his 
prison cell; and word was born to Richard that his order had been 
performed. 

Richard then determined to bear word of Clarence's death to 
the enfeebled king, who was attended by the queen and certain 
noblemen who were her friends; he would tell it he resolved, in 
such a manner, so suddenly and with so little preparation in the 
minds of those that were to hear it, that his news might startle 
Edward in his illness into a state of grief that must be fatal to him. 
So, when the queen by chance spoke to Edward of the Duke of 
Clarence, begging that Edward become reconciled with him, Richard 
asked if she were jesting at his brother's memory, and also asked 
if she did not know that the Duke of Clarence were now dead. 
When the noblemen that were present heard this dreadful question, 
they became suddenly pale, and Edward in a faltering voice asked 
if Richard's words were true; the order for Clarence's death, he 
said, had been reversed and Clarence was to live and receive a royal 
pardon. 

" But Clarence, poor soul," said Richard, " died by your first 
order, and while a winged Mercury did bear it to the prison, a tardy 
cripple bore the countermand that came too late to see our brother 
buried." 

Richard with a lively show of grief said then that he prayed 
to Heaven there were none at Edward's court who were more 
guilty than the innocent Clarence, and while he rejoiced inwardly 
at Clarence's murder and the way that he had imparted it to Ed- 
ward, he wept false tears and feigned a heavy sorrow. 

Edward also wept, and bade his noblemen convey him to his 
chamber for this news had seemed to cast a leaden weight upon 
his spirit. He recalled a thousand kindnesses that Clarence had 
done to him; how he had saved his life in battle, saying to him, 
" Dear brother, live and be a king," and how Clarence, when they 



438 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

slept afield in the hardships of the winter, had wrapped him in his 
own garments, giving himself all thin and naked to the numbing 
cold of night. And, indeed, it was not long before King Edward 
died, stricken with remorse at the cruel fate of his unfortunate 
brother, caused as he believed by his own rash and groundless anger. 

But although Edward and Clarence now were dead as he desired, 
Richard still could not attain the throne, for many noblemen deter- 
mined that young Edward should be crowned as king without delay; 
and there were many that hated Richard bitterly and would have 
died ere they beheld him on that throne where they had placed his 
nobler brother. 

Chief of Richard's enemies were certain friends of the widowed 
queen, who would suffer nothing to prevent her son from being 
king, as was his right. But Richard, by the law that all of Eng- 
land held as sacred, since the rightful king, his nephew, was a 
child, unfit for many years to take upon himself the cares of 
state, must rule in place of him as Lord Protector, and this office 
gave to him a vast power that he could use to destroy all that might 
oppose him. He plotted many pretexts for the death of the queen's 
friends, confining them at last in prison, where, on false charges 
of treason, he caused them to be executed. And Richard made 
known to certain of his friends, that it was his firm intention to 
become a king; he promised them rewards of land and money if 
they aided him, saying his royal favour when he won the crown 
would ever follow them and make them great above all others in the 
land; and he promised to Buckingham that when his plans had pros- 
pered and the throne was fast in his possession, he would give the 
duke the earldom of Hereford for his own and all the rich posses- 
sions that attended it. Buckingham became his secret spy, and 
through his means Richard learned the hearts of all the noblemen 
and contrived to work the downfall of all men that opposed him. 

The time was now prepared, so Richard thought, to seize upon 
the kingdom and gain the throne before his nephew, Edward, 
should be crowned openly in the presence of the people. But the 



KING RICHARD THE THIRD 439 

name of king, Richard believed, would be more firmly won if it 
were freely offered him — still more if he should feign humility and 
reluctance to receive it. So Richard bade the Duke of Buckingham 
to contrive that this be effected and win the people to his cause; 
to spread abroad dark slanders on the name of Edward; to infer 
that Edward's children were unlawfully begotten and of humble 
birth; to speak of Edward's vices, of his prodigality and freedom 
of nature, until the people would renounce their loyalty to Edward's 
son. This done, said Richard, he would feign remonstrance at the 
honour that the people thrust upon him, and would beg them to do 
right to his nephew who was their lawful heir and ruler. Thus 
they would believe he had become king by their own choosing. 

In the meanwhile Richard's nephews, young Edward and his 
brother, the little Duke of York, had come to London for the coro- 
nation and were given into the care of Richard. And Richard met 
them with gracious smiles and a simulated affection; he inquired if 
their journey had weaned them and if they would rest for he had, 
he said, prepared a chamber for them in the Tower, and he gave 
them welcome with so kindly a manner, that in the way of children 
they soon commenced to ply him with a thousand questions, asked 
if he believed that there were ghosts in that dark tower, and if 
Julius Caesar built it as their tutors had told them. And Edward 
began to talk of what he would do when he became a man and 
could lead soldiers to the wars, while his brother commenced to play 
with the jewelled dagger at his uncle's side. When Richard had 
conducted them to the Tower — a gloomy place to shelter the sweet 
children he had taken thither — he gave commands that none 
should approach them save by his own orders, that even the queen 
herself should be denied to see them and that on no account should 
they be allowed to pass from out the prison where he had consigned 
them. 

The Duke of Buckingham, who was a clever orator, had made 
the citizens believe that Richard should be king. The citizens, 
indeed, cared little who ruled over them, so long as they were left at 



440 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

peace, being weary of the wars that so many years had raged 
about the crown. They feared also that the country under Edward, 
who was only a child, would be torn with further bloodshed, as 
it had been in the time of Henry the Sixth, who was incapable of 
rule. And a multitude of people with the Mayor of London at 
their head came to offer their allegiance to Richard. 

Richard knew of their approach, and desired to impress them 
utterly with his unwillingness to take the crown. He answered 
their demand to see him, by saying that he was engaged in prayer 
and could not leave the priests with whom he was consulting, and 
when they insisted that he show himself, he appeared with an open 
prayer-book in his hand, bidding them pardon him for neglecting 
them, while Buckingham whispered that the citizens should mark 
how different was this prince from the late Edward. Richard was 
not spending his time in idle pleasures, in loose living and dissipa- 
tion; he was on his knees with holy men at prayer, seeking to benefit 
his soul. Richard himself said that he had been occupied with his 
spiritual welfare, far sweeter to him than any earthly matter. And 
when the people cried that he should be their king, he looked on 
them with an appearance of reproof, refusing to think of such an 
offer, however kindly meant, and bidding them turn to Edward, his 
nephew, who was their rightful lord, more fit for such high state 
and majesty than he. 

The Duke of Buckingham, who had urged the people on to make 
this request, pretended to be angry at Richard's refusal of such 
honour. He said that if Richard denied them, Edward even then 
should not be king for they would plant upon the throne some other 
who should cause the downfall of the house of York, and he called 
the citizens to come away for he would entreat no longer with one 
who seemed both blind and deaf to the best welfare of his country. 

But other noblemen begged Richard to call the people back and 
consent to their proposal lest his country suffer in his refusal, and 
Richard, who said he was not made of stone, finally agreed to do 
so, although apparently with great reluctance. He said to the peO- 



KING RICHARD THE THIRD 441 

pie that as they forced him to this great fortune, if any ever did re- 
proach him with it or accused him of designing to attain the throne 
his own unwillingness must tell them that he was free and clear from 
fault. As he was king through no desire of his own but through 
the true love of his subjects and the choice of the people made at 
their own free will, he washed his hands, he said, of all the stains 
and blots that might befall them in his reign. 

But Richard now began to think upon his nephews in the Tower 
and how some factious noblemen in future times if they should weary 
of his rule might seek to place young Edward on the throne. He 
thought also of how the dead king had been set at freedom; and 
how he himself had contrived the escape of his brother Edward, to 
stir up further conflict and cast the whole land into the confusion of 
a long and bloody war. If he were to reign in peace, thought 
Richard, Edward's children must not live to trouble him; and he 
conceived the shocking purpose of murdering them as he had mur- 
dered the Duke of Clarence, their uncle. 

Richard took into his confidence the Duke of Buckingham, who 
had served him ceaselessly, for Buckingham, he thought, would 
give him aid in the dreadful deed of putting his nephews to death. 
And he said to Buckingham that he would test him now and learn 
if his great friendship had indeed been true or nothing but a sham 
and a deception; if Buckingham were solid gold or merely gilded 
— fair to the outward view but of less value than he seemed. He 
concluded that he would contrive his nephews' death, asking the Duke 
of Buckingham to help him in their murder. 

But the Duke of Buckingham, although a wicked man, could not 
think of such a deed without great horror and reluctance to perform 
it. And before he should consent to give his aid in this brutal 
purpose of murdering two children that had harmed no living thing 
in all their lives and were as innocent as they were fair to look 
upon, Buckingham determined to find out if Richard would give 
him the reward that had been promised him. And he spoke to 
Richard of this promise, saying that as Richard now was king, 



442 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

he desired of him the earldom of Hereford and all the rich estate 
that was a portion of it. But Richard was very angry that Buck- 
ingham had refused even for an instant to consent to his request; 
he put him off with doubtful words, paying little attention to what 
was urged upon him. And Buckingham, in mingled rage and 
horror, fled from the court and prepared to raise a force of soldiers 
against Richard: for even at that moment, Henry, the young Earl 
of Richmond, was coming to England with an army to drive Richard 
from the kingdom and seize the throne. 

Richard summoned to him a man whose name was Tyrrel who 
was a person of such wicked cruelty that he would not hesitate 
at any ill deed imposed upon him if the reward for performing it 
were sufficiently great; and Richard acquainted Tyrrel with his 
purpose, bidding him seek out his nephews in the tower and murder 
them by any means at his command. He bade him to make haste 
and remained alone with brooding and bitter thoughts until the 
news of his nephews' murder should be brought to him. 

Tyrrel with some hard-hearted and cruel helpers then sought the 
children as they slept, locked in each others arms in tender slumber; 
and when they beheld these gentle babes, their lips like four red roses 
on a stalk, their arms girdling one another in a soft embrace, and 
their breasts scarce stirring with the peaceful breath of their calm 
sleep, remorse almost turned them from their purpose. But they 
stifled the two children in the coverings of the bed whereon they 
lay; and the chaplain of the Tower buried them with haste and 
secrecy. 

But Richard did not gain the safety that he thought to win by 
this abominable murder, for Henry, the Earl of Richmond, with a 
mighty army had landed on the English coast and was marching 
against him. And many nobles fled from Richard to join the 
army of Henry, who purposed to rid England of the tyrant who 
controlled it. And Henry possessed a calm and untroubled spirit, 
feeling sure of victory, while Richard trembled lest his supporters 
desert him to join with his enemies. 



KING RICHARD THE THIRD 443 

The two armies beheld each other at last near a place called 
Bosworth Field, and as night came upon them before they could 
meet in battle, they prepared for an encounter on the following 
day. Henry cheered his men with encouraging words and bade 
them have no fear: right and justice were on their side and on the 
morrow would direct their swords against their enemies. But 
Richard, although his army was far greater than his adversary's, 
possessed none of Henry's assurance or certitude of victory, evil 
doubts and fears besetting him. And he wearied himself in think- 
ing of the morrow's combat, while Henry lay sleeping to refresh his 
strength against it. 

When Richard at last sought to sleep, a strange and terrible 
event befell him, for in his dreams he beheld the ghosts of all that 
he had murdered. They passed before him one by one and each 
one as it passed cried out " despair and die," for that his edgeless 
sword should fall before the anger of his enemies. First came the 
shade of Edward whom he stabbed upon the field of battle; 
Henry the Sixth followed, then the noblemen whom Richard had 
condemned to death for opposing his designs upon the throne; and 
his nephews who were stifled in the Tower, and his wife, the lady 
Ann, whom he had also murdered; and last of all, there came the 
Duke of Buckingham, whose army had been routed and he himself 
captured and slain by Richard; and Buckingham, too, cried out that 
Richard must despair and die : that as he was the last to feel the 
tyranny of Richard, Richard sliould think of him in battle, and 
die at last in terror of his guiltiness. The spirits then departed 
from his sight, and they entered the tent of Henry, bidding him 
keep fair hopes upon the morrow for his enemies would all be 
routed and Richard himself slain. 

Richard started from his sleep in utter terror, thinking, in his 
disordered mind, that he was in the thick of conflict, wounded, 
and sore pressed by the besieging swords of many enemies. And 
when he awakened he thanked Heaven that he did but dream and 
yet, said he, how could one talk of Heaven who was such a bloody 



444 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

villain. He thought that if he died as had been foretold to him 
in sleep, none would pity him, and that in all his kingdom there 
would be no feeling save joy that he no longer lived. In his fear 
and terror, and the sudden burnings of remorse that came upon him 
he knew not where to turn and blessed the minute when his followers 
came to his tent as he had ordered, bidding him arise and prepare 
himself, for that his friends were even at that moment buckling on 
their armour. 

The battle then began between the rival armies. But the troops 
of Richard fought less bravely than their adversaries and soon were 
completely overthrown. And Richard himself was slain by the 
sword of Henry as had been prophesied, and Henry, beholding him 
lifeless, bade his followers cease their pursuit of the defeated army 
for the battle was completely won and Richard dead. Henry then 
became king over the English people who found him a wise and 
virtuous ruler, in high contrast to the terrible king, Richard, from 
whom he had delivered them. 



THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF KING 
HENRY THE EIGHTH 

IN the time of the proud king, Henry the Eighth, there lived 
in England a priest called Cardinal Wolsey, who became so 
powerful at court and so close a friend to his royal master 
that all the noblemen of England could not hope to rival his 
greatness. But although Wolsey was Henry's dearest adviser 
with power and influence hardly less than the king's own, he laboured 
constantly both to get further wealth and honour for himself and 
to overthrow all men that might oppose him. The schemes that 
Wolsey wrought against his enemies were no less crafty in design 
than artfully executed upon them. His wealth was known to be 
great and he would use it freely to further his own ends, whether 
to obtain some dignity that he desired, or to bribe the retainers of 
an enemy to reveal to him their master's secrets. Few were able 
and still fewer dared oppose his will; and this mighty and ambi- 
tious Cardinal became famous not only at home but in foreign 
countries. Kings and princes sought his favour and contrived with 
him in the affairs of state, until Wolsey with great pride and arro- 
gance ranked himself the equal of these rulers. At times he would 
engage in secret dealings with them for his own private advantage, 
and it was no other then Cardinal Wolsey who arranged the famous 
meeting known as the Field of the Cloth of Gold, where the king 
of England and the king of France met on terms of friendship 
with great splendour, and where the Cardinal, with his enormous 
wealth, appeared in greater pomp than any other nobleman. 

But although Cardinal Wolsey was powerful at court until no 
man dared to oppose him openly, in secret he was hated by many 
noblemen who through jealousy or anger at some wrong he had 

445 



446 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

worked upon them desired his ruin. Chief of his enemies was the 
Duke of Buckingham — a nobleman of a courageous spirit, and 
well aware of Wolsey's trickery. 

The Duke of Buckingham through some means had become 
aware of one of Wolsey's secrets: that the emperor, Charles, had 
offered to him a sum of money to persuade King Henry to break the 
friendly peace that had just been concluded at the Field of the 
Cloth of Gold, Buckingham intended to inform King Henry of 
the secret dealings of the Cardinal, and tell of his agreement with 
the emperor: how Wolsey would buy and sell the honour of his 
country, and how he intended to influence his own king to be false 
to the treaty so recently concluded with the land of France. And 
Buckingham alone of all the courtiers treated the great Cardinal 
with high disdain showing with open plainness that he had no fear 
of any injury that Wolsey could work upon him, with a reckless dis- 
regard of Wolsey's power. 

Cardinal Wolsey, however, was not unaware of what Buckingham 
intended against him, for by gold and promises he had bribed the 
servants of this duke to act as spies and informers against their 
own master. By means of truths artfully twisted until they ap- 
peared as treason to the king, and by false reports and slanders, the 
Cardinal had also obtained a number of accusations against Buck- 
ingham that must without a question condemn the unfortunate duke 
to the severest penalty of the law. Having prepared his net, the 
Cardinal caused Buckingham to be arrested on these charges and 
brought to trial to answer them: for his accusers had informed 
the king of prophecies foretelling that Buckingham should rule 
all England; and how the duke not only had plotted to gain the 
throne, but had sworn with the deepest oaths to murder Henry 
himself. And Henry, in great rage, spoke of Buckingham as a 
giant traitor and consigned him to his trial with the resolve that 
were he guilty nothing in the land could save him from the doom 
that even then the Cardinal had prepared against him. 

Katharine, the queen of England, was a noble minded and 



KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 447 

generous lady who perceived too plainly the malicious purpose of 
Wolsey in seeking the Duke of Buckingham's death. Katharine 
did all that lay in her power to save the duke, reminding the king 
that these same accusers had formerly been discharged from his 
service and bore ill will against their master. And Katharine 
spoke to the king of a grievous tax the Cardinal had caused to be 
laid on all the people of the land — desiring in her heart to destroy 
his power over her husband — bidding the Cardinal himself, who 
was urging Buckingham's offenses, to speak with charity and justice, 
even if he must speak against the noble duke who was completely 
in his power. 

But all the efforts of Queen Katharine were to no purpose, for 
Buckingham was speedily condemned to death by the group of noble- 
men who sat in judgment upon him; and although he grieved tor 
the cause of his sad fate, having ever born himself as a loyal subject 
and one that loved his king,, he met his end with the utmost 
bravery and with his last breath assured his friends who accom- 
panied him to the scaffold, of his entire innocence, bidding them 
and all the people to pray for him as a true subject, now that the 
last hour of his long and weary life was at hand. The Duke of 
Buckingham dead, there seemed to be no man who could dispute 
in any way the high position of Cardinal Wolsey or thwart what he 
intended. 

In accusing the Duke of Buckingham to the king, Cardinal 
Wolsey plainly perceived the ill will born against him by Queen 
Katharine, and he determined both as a means of revenge and to 
increase his own authority to persuade the king, his master, to divorce 
her. Although Katharine for twenty years had served her husband 
with the utmost truth and loyalty, becoming through all England 
the model of a sincere and loving wife, the Cardinal sought to 
poison the mind of Henry until he should believe his marriage with 
the gentle lady had been contrary to law. And Henry was pre- 
pared to listen to the Cardinal, for Katharine had formerly been 
wedded to the king's brother and the closeness of this relationship 



448 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

was the means whereby Wolsey cast doubt upon her second marriage 
and her present state of wedlock with the king. 

But another and greater reason that made Henry wish for so 
cruel a separation from his wife was the secret state of his own 
affections. A feast had been given by the Cardinal, who was wont 
to entertain his guests with great liberality, where all the fairest 
and most noble ladies of the land had been invited. To this 
feast King Henry with a number of his courtiers went disguised in 
masks and foreign garments, and Henry had danced with a lady 
whose rare beauty startled and enchanted him until he wished her 
to become his queen. On inquiring from his courtiers about her, 
what was her name and her position the king learned that she 
was called Anne Bullen, one of the queen's attendants, and her breed- 
ing suited well, so he believed, the dignity that he professed to 
confer upon her. For Henry was determined to wed Anne Bullen 
and he sought with the utmost of his power to bring about separa- 
tion from his wife, Katharine, as speedily as possible on this account. 

Cardinal Wolsey aided Henry, writing letters to the pope of Rome 
and not yet aware of the king's secret passion for Anne Bullen, in- 
dulging in ambitious plans to win a new and wealthy bride for his 
royal master. 

Katharine at last was summoned before a court of law where it 
was purposed to divorce her, but when, according to due custom, 
she was called loudly by name by the court crier, she made no answer 
to him, but rose and went to Henry where he sat in state; and on 
her knees she cast herself before him, saying that she desired his 
right and justice and that he bestow his royal pity upon her. She 
was, she said, a most poor woman born in another country, with no 
judge or friend who could protect her in this harsh proceeding, so 
much undeserved and so unworthily set on foot against her. She 
asked Henry if she had not always been his true and loyal wife, 
who strove to do his will and ever feared to kindle his dislike or 
anger. And she said to him " My gracious lord, I pray you to re- 
member that for twenty years I have continued in this obedience 



KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 449 

and have been blest with many children by you. If in this time 
you can report a single stain upon my honour, a single wrong that 
I have done against you, in God's name turn me away and shut the 
door on me with foul contempt! If not, I pray you spare me until 
I hear from my friends in Spain whose advice and help in my unhap- 
piness I will speedily implore." 

Cardinal Wolsey, who had heard the queen's appeal with great 
attention, said that this might not be allowed her, for learned and 
reverend fathers had assembled to defend her cause; and the queen 
replied she had been prepared to weep, but looking on the Cardinal 
her tears were changed to sparks of fire. It was Wolsey, she said, 
that had blown this coal between her and the king, and she continued 
that she utterly abhorred and from her soul refused to hear Car- 
dinal Wolsey judge her, holding him her most malicious foe, and 
not at all a friend to truth or charity. 

When the Cardinal attempted to defend himself (and he had con- 
ducted his affairs so craftily that even the king was not aware that 
he desired this divorce) Katharine would hear no more, but with 
her followers and attendants left the court, saying that never again 
would she appear to answer such a summons, which her dignity of 
queen or, if she might be queen no longer, as the daughter of a 
noble king prevented her. And Katharine in great sadness retired 
to her apartments and except in the expression of her grief gave no 
outward sign that she regarded the cruel measures that had been 
taken against her. For the court in her refusal to appear pro- 
nounced the sentence of divorce upon her and proclaimed that hence- 
forth she must nevermore assume the name of queen or even of the 
former wife of Henry. 

Even before the divorce had been proclaimed, the king had sought 
to favour the new object of his love, Anne Bullen, who was sorely 
grieved at the affliction that had befallen her royal mistress. It 
chanced, however, that even while she was lamenting the misfortune 
that had overtaken Katharine, a nobleman came to her and in- 
formed her of a marvellous change in her own fortunes : for the 



!5o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

king, he said, had created her the Marchioness of Pembroke and 
had added to this honour a large sum of money for the maintenance 
of her newly acquired rank. It was not long, indeed, before the 
king exalted her to honours even greater for he married her in secret 
and awaited only for some fitting time to proclaim her as his queen. 

Cardinal Wolsey had not a suspicion that the king had already 
been wedded to Anne Bullen, but his heart misgave him when he 
beheld the affection with which Henry regarded her. It would 
never do, thought Wolsey, for his king to marry so far beneath him, 
and Wolsey had also chosen a rich bride that he resolved Henry 
should wed — no other than the Duchess of Alengon, sister to the 
king of France. Before the separation from Katharine had been 
granted, Wolsey perceived that the divorce formerly desired by 
him would now impede his plans, and he sent to the pope a secret 
letter asking for delay, for he said that he perceived the king to 
be entangled in his affections to a creature of his court. And 
Wolsey carefully concealed this act from Henry's knowledge, 
thoroughly aware that it would awaken his severe displeasure. 

But the destiny that had permitted the divorce of the unhappy 
and innocent queen, Katharine, which had been effected in spite of 
Wolsey's recent efforts, did not allow him to continue long in his 
high state of favour, for his letter was intercepted and brought to 
the attention of King Henry; the king also obtained another paper 
that aroused him to further anger — and it seemed that justice had 
caused the Cardinal to work his own undoing, for he had himself 
given this paper into the king's hands, including it by oversight in 
a number of state documents. In it was written a complete list of 
all the Cardinal's wealth and vast possessions, all his secret stores of 
gold, his land-holdings, houses and moveables, his horses and his 
silverware, his velvets and his jewels, his costly wines, laces, silks 
and sumptuous attire — wealth so vast that no one save the king 
himself should have the right to own it, for such great property 
showed that the Cardinal had plundered all the country to possess 
it. Cardinal Wolsey secretly had purposed to become the pope of 



KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 451 

Rome and had amassed this property to influence his friends and 
smooth his path to that great office; and the king in reading these 
two papers, learned that Wolsey was indeed far greater than he 
pretended : that while he showed an outward humility in the presence 
of his sovereign, his heart was full of high and ambitious desires, 
far removed from the conscience of a priest. And Henry in his 
anger forgot that while the Cardinal enriched himself, he had 
laboured intently for his king and striven to perform the royal 
wishes; that he had ever been affectionate, and, for the most part, 
loyal, and that his craft and statesmanship had made all England 
great. The king's high friendship for the Cardinal was turned at a 
blow to wrath and deep resentment, and he determined to punish 
Wolsey with the utmost severity. 

Never had the thoughts of Cardinal Wolsey flown so high or had 
he been so vexed at the difficulties that attended his designs as on 
the day when this misfortune was to befall him. He was planning 
how his king should wed the princess of France, and he said to him- 
self that he would have no man or woman interfere with his great 
purpose. What though Anne Bullen were beautiful and virtuous, 
he exclaimed. There was more in such matters than a fair com- 
plexion. And Wolsey also thought of a new rival that had sprung 
up against him in the person of a lord named Cranmer, who was 
high in the king's affections — a heretic, one that was a traitor to 
the church of Rome — and the Cardinal began, according to his 
custom, to contrive the downfall of this man who had, as he ex- 
pressed it, crawled into the favour of his king. 

Even while Cardinal Wolsey was engaged in these proud 
thoughts, Henry, accompanied by many noblemen came into his 
presence, and fixed him with a severe glance, frowning upon him 
until the Cardinal wondered at the cause of his displeasure; and 
Henry said ironically that he perceived the Cardinal was full of 
heavenly thoughts and scarcely could steal time to think of the affairs 
of earth, but he would ask of him, he said, if he had not become the 
first man in the state through Henry's favour alone, and if he were 



452 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

not bound to Henry more than to any other for all his great- 
ness. The Cardinal replied that Henry's benefits had been show- 
ered upon him daily, for which he could render nothing but his 
thanks, his prayers to Heaven and his firm loyalty to the king which 
grew, as he said, more great each day, and ever would until death, 
should put it to an end. Henry answered that he spoke most nobly, 
calling his lords to witness that the Cardinal had a loyal breast, 
for they had seen him open it. He then gave to the Cardinal the 
papers that disclosed his secrets, and left him abruptly, bidding him 
to read them. And the noblemen who rejoiced in Wolsey's down- 
fall, crowded after the king with smiles and whispers, showing 
openly their delight and giving free expression to the hostile feelings 
that so long they had been forced to conceaL 

When Wolsey read the papers he perceived that all his high am- 
bitions and his own proud fortunes were at an end, for he knew 
that he could never hope to win back the favour of the king. And 
word soon came from Henry that confirmed the worst of the Car- 
dinal's fears, for noblemen returned into his presence demanding 
him to deliver to them at once the great seal of England, and to 
confine himself in retirement until he should hear further from the 
king, his master; and they triumphed over him with such malicious 
spite, that Wolsey could not long defend himself, and when they 
left him he seemed as a man in grievous illness, bidding farewell to 
all his hopes of greatness. He exclaimed upon the wretched state 
of men like himself who hung on princes' favours for their happi- 
ness, and cried out to his own secretary, who showed both wonder 
and grief to see his lord so changed, that had he but served his God 
with half the zeal he served his king he would not have been left in 
his old age naked and defenseless before his enemies. The Cardinal 
then went to the place of his retirement, whence he was soon sum- 
moned into Henry's presence; but the journey in his changed state 
was more than he could endure, and in an abbey, where he had 
taken refuge in his illness, he died in great repentance, and his 



KING HENRY THE EIGHTH 453 

last hours were given up to grief for all the wrongs he had com- 
mitted in his long and ambitious life. 

A fate fully as unhappy as Cardinal Wolsey's now overtook the 
last of the unfortunates whose ruin he had effected, for the poor, 
divorced queen, Katharine, also pined away in sorrow at the change 
that had befallen her. Katharine had a vision in her sleep that 
gave her to know her end was near at hand, for in a dream she 
beheld spirits robed in white and clad in garlands who crowned her 
as one of themselves. Katharine believed this vision prophesied 
her death which she felt was swiftly approaching her, and she sent 
to Henry, her former lord, a message of farewell commending to 
his care her daughter, Mary, and telling him that even though 
unkindly treated, she still loved him. She bade her women to use 
her with all respect and strew upon her when she died, white, maiden 
flowers, that the world might know that she had been a chaste wife 
to the hour of her death; and thus the life of this unhappy queen 
came to an end. As for Henry, her death was little regarded by 
him, for he was proud in the birth of a daughter by the lady who 
displaced Queen Katharine in his affections; and this child was 
named Elizabeth who was later to become a great and illustrious 
ruler over the English people. 



THE END 



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